


The Avalanche And Little Pebbles

by Dyce



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, Ableism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 95,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyce/pseuds/Dyce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if someone else caught the eye of the public and the revolution before Katniss? When a boy from District Seven wins the Games and captures hearts everywhere, the revolution comes when Katniss is only fourteen. Tiny, poor District Twelve may be an afterthought for everyone during and after the revolution, but to Katniss, it's all that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When The War Began

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Falstaff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falstaff/gifts).



> This is for my partner Falstaff, who is a fervent Hunger Games fan from way back. Having finally dragged me in, he begged me to post the beginning of a story he helped to inspire - what if the revolution came *early*? How would Katniss, Peeta, Gale and Prim's lives unfold with the war already over? 
> 
> This one will be a sporadic updater, but feedback *is* very inspiring...

I am fourteen when the revolution begins.   
  
It comes as a surprise. I watch the Hunger Games that year, as we are all required to do. Both the tributes from Twelve go down at the Cornucopia in the first bloodbath - no surprise, since they were both in their early teens, underfed and completely incapable of protecting themselves. At that point, I lose most of my interest.  
  
But even I am captivated by the boy from Seven. He’s eighteen, big and very strong, strong enough to make even the Careers nervous, but he has a smile that lights up his face and he is kinder than anyone in the arena should be. There are two twelve-year-olds that year, from Ten and from Three. When the Games begin, he grabs both of them and takes off running. Nobody can figure out what he’s doing. What his plan is.  
  
His plan is to keep those two little kids alive. And he’s smart. He waits until the Careers set out to hunt down the others and then he parks his two littles on high rocks as lookouts and strolls into the Cornucopia to help himself. He knew they wouldn’t guard the Cornucopia that first night, because they never do. And by morning, when they come back, he’s taken most of the food and hidden it, and thrown what’s left into the deep ravine that borders the Cornucopia area on one side.   
  
The rocky, mountainous region the Arena pretends to be must be strange to him, but he adapts fast. He and the kids lay traps, leave hidden caches of food and water in a dozen places, play smart.   
  
Then, nine days in, the girl from Eleven finds the kids while Harry, the boy from Seven, is out hunting. He comes back to find them dead, little heads bashed in, and the food gone. And he weeps for them without shame, laying out the small broken bodies and saying a verse that must be what they say over the dead in Seven.   
  
And then he picks up the great axe he took from the Cornucopia and he wins the Games within two days. There were only five other tributes left then - the boy from One, the girls from Two and Four, the boy from Five and the girl from Eleven. He tracks the girl from Eleven first, and kills her as mercilessly as she killed the two little kids. Then he finds the others and takes them down too. He is not cruel or vicious, his kills are swift and clean, but he is as unstoppable and deadly as winter. By the time he has beheaded the girl from Two to claim victory, the commentators are calling him ‘the Avalanche from District Seven’.   
  
In his interview with Caesar Flickerman after the Games, he is quiet but articulate. When Caesar asks him why he protected the two little kids, he says that he was always taught that it is the duty of the strong to protect the weak, that they were only children. He is interrupted then, and that segment of the interview is never replayed.   
  
When he passes through Twelve on his Victory Tour, a few months later, I go to see. I usually don’t, but I like Harry Moran. I like him more after his speech, in which he expresses his regret that he could do nothing for the Tributes from District Twelve, but says they would not have accepted his help. He speaks of the independence of District Twelve, our stubbornness and our courage. For once, the compliments (and he understands that they are compliments) don’t seem fake or scripted. He understands that we want no charity and no favours. That we depend on ourselves to survive.   
  
It does not, in retrospect, surprise me that he is the catalyst for the revolution. A month after his tour, it reaches Twelve in the form of new Peacekeepers, of draconian rules and compulsory-viewing news broadcasts about the price of rebellion against the capital.   
  
We hadn’t even known there _was_ rebellion against the Capitol until then. It’s the end of winter, when all of District Twelve is focused on not freezing or starving before the thaw comes. But the new Peacekeepers aren’t like our old ones, carping or tolerant according to personal inclination. There was no rebellion when they arrived in Twelve, but it takes no time at all to get going once they’re there. Their leader, a man named Fine, has three miners whipped for ‘sedition’ in the first week, and Gale Hawthorne is punched until his face is hardly recognisable merely for saying in a Peacekeeper’s hearing that the Capitol must be stupid to be worried about rebellion in winter. They might have whipped him too, but the Mayor knew he was only sixteen. It turns out there’s a law against flogging children except for capitol offences. I hadn’t known that.   
  
When Fine orders two people, a man and a woman, executed for the possession of ‘contraband material’ - the woman an old book of herbal remedies that includes poisons, the man a large knife inherited from his grandfather - the crowd that gathers is ugly. I am there, wishing I had my bow and glad that I made Prim stay at home with our mother.   
  
No-one is surprised when one of the men - the woman’s brother, I learn later - protests the execution. They are surprised when he is simply shot down on the spot, without even a warning to those standing near him to get out of the way. But they are truly stunned when Fine collapses a moment later, his head a bloody spray. He has been shot too.  
  
And the only people with guns in Twelve are Peacekeepers.   
  
It is Darius, a young Peacekeeper who’s only been in Twelve for a couple of years. He looks stunned by what he’s just done, and would have died seconds after Fine if more of the Peacekeepers hadn’t come to his defence. That is how the first battle for District Twelve begins, with Peacekeeper against Peacekeeper and the rest of us very, very confused.   
  
When it is over, all the new Peacekeepers and some of the old ones are dead. But twelve of the District Twelve Peacekeepers are alive and - apparently - rebels. Some don’t surprise me. Darius is young and nice - he has bought meat from me before. And Theoph and Corwin have families in Twelve - it’s a secret, but the sort of secret everyone knows. Theoph is an older man who’s had an understanding with a widow for a number of years. Maybe it started out as a way to feed her family, but from the way she hugs him when she finds him still alive, it got to be more than that. Corwin is a little younger than my mother, and everyone knows that he and Emily Fallon fell stupid in love years ago. He wanted to marry her, but Cray wouldn’t let him, even when the baby was on the way. There were unkind words said about Emily, of course, but not so many as there might have been. Everyone knows that Corwin would have married her if he could, and he’s stood by her and their son for more than five years.   
  
They get married two days after the fight, and Emily cries the whole time. But she seems happy anyway.   
  
The other Peacekeepers are mostly the older ones, who’ve been here for a long time. Twelve is their home now, and it seems they just couldn’t stomach brutalising people who they knew hadn’t had even a thought of rebelling until now. Some of them want to try to smooth things over somehow, but the others say it’s no good. Nothing will make what they’ve done right with the Capitol, so they’ll just have to fight it out.   
  
The Capitol sends more troops, of course. First there are more Peacekeepers, and I kill a man for the first time when I shoot him and then three of his allies with my bow. I throw up afterwards.   
  
When the third attack comes, I am on my way to the school to collect Prim. School has become a haphazard thing in that last week, so I have been out ice-fishing instead of learning more about coal. But it’s warm there, so I make Prim go.   
  
The third attack is bombs of some kind, dropped from a hovercraft. The first one hits the Justice Building, reducing one corner to rubble. The second hits the square.  
  
The third hits the school.

I see it, but I am too far away to do more than scream for Prim. There are kids running everywhere - they came out when the first bomb hit, hearing the noise. There is a chance for Prim, a chance, and I run towards the school. I nearly get trampled by people running away, but I don’t care. I have to find Prim.   
  
Gale finds me there and drags me into a doorway, shouting at me not to be stupid. He tells me I can’t help. Gale might be starting to be my friend, but that doesn’t stop me from biting and kicking and trying to get away from him.   
  
When I do, I keep running, and I see Prim. She is on the ground, crying, with blood running down her head, but she’s alive. She’s alive, and if I can get to her I can help her, get her on her feet…   
  
I am still half the length of the street away when I see one of the running boys stop beside Prim, helping her up and pulling her arm over his shoulder. Everyone else just ran past her, but he stops to help. I decide that I love him, even though I can’t even tell who he is under the dust that is covering everything.   
  
He is halfway to a doorway with her, seeking shelter, when the next bomb goes off. I don’t know where it hit, but it’s close, and if Gale hadn’t caught up to me again and dragged me up against a wall, I would have been flattened by the debris.   
  
The hovercraft moves on then, and I pull away from Gale, screaming Prim’s name. After a moment, I hear a muffled answer. I am afraid she is under debris, but when I find her she is under the boy who stopped to help her. He shielded her tiny body with his, in that last second, and she is frightened but alive.   
  
He is in worse shape. His back has been torn by a spray of broken stone, there are dark bruises already showing on his bare arms and no doubt on the rest of him, and one of his feet is trapped under a mass of stone. He must have seen it coming down and tried to throw himself and Prim clear, and didn’t quite make it.   
  
I make a tourniquet of my belt, under Prim’s dizzy but determined guidance, so he won’t bleed out, but there’s no way the mangled meat of his foot and lower leg can be saved. I don’t start to cry until  Gale drags him clear and turns him over, and I see that it is Peeta Mellark.   
  
He has saved Prim twice now. I never knew if the bread was deliberate, if he burned it so he could give it to me, but this time there is no doubt. He could have run past her, but he didn’t. He could have let go of her when the bomb fell, but he didn’t. He protected her with his own body, and paid for it with his left foot. I will never, never be able to pay back what I owe him, and I can only hug Prim and cry until people come and take us to the apothecary to be examined.   
  
That is the last time there is fighting in District Twelve. Two days later, the broadcasts tell us that the Capitol has fallen. Harry Moran, the Avalanche, has led the Districts to victory. We are free, we are told.   
  
All that matters to me is that there will be no more Hunger Games. Nobody will ever take Prim away from me, or me from Prim. There are still plenty of dangers in our world, but the Capitol is no longer one of them.   
  
I bring squirrels to the bakery often, while Peeta is recovering, and won’t take payment. It’s not enough, but I have to do something. Mr Mellark tells me that it helps, that meat will help him get strong again. Mrs Mellark curses at me the one time I see her, and after that I’m careful to avoid her.   
  
I don’t see Peeta, but that’s just as well. What do you say to someone you owe, not your life, but all the things that you keep living for? How can you begin to say thank you to someone who’s been crippled for life by the moment of kindness that kept Prim alive?   
  
By spring, the new government is settling into place. New bureaucrats and new Peacekeepers show up - the Peacekeepers call themselves ‘soldiers’ and wear grey instead of white, but it’s the same job either way.   
  
They try to take our Peacekeepers away. We make it clear that that will not happen. When they try to argue, the mayor tells them that nobody is taking our people away ever again. They push him aside, clearly intending to take the men by force, and this time I am the one who shoots first, putting an arrow in the leg of the man in front. Nobody is taking our people. Not the new government, not anybody.   
  
When it becomes clear to them that to get the former Peacekeepers they will have to cut their way through a group of very angry civilians - Greasy Sae is standing in front of Darius with her ladle raised, and his expression is very funny - they leave. After that, for the first time since anyone can remember, District Twelve is more or less left alone.   
  
When I turn fifteen, I am no longer counting down the years until I am safe from the Hunger Games. I am already safe.   
  
We are free.


	2. Bounty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains fairly graphic child abuse.

  
  
I am fifteen when my family grows.   
  
Fifteen is a good year, the best since my father died. All the districts receive train-loads of extra food through that first year, to help us recover from the deliberate shortages imposed by the Capitol. (The citizens of the Capitol are rationed as they have never been before, the news tells us, and everyone is happy to see them take their turn.) There are no tesserae any more, but that doesn’t matter. Every citizen, down to the smallest infant, gets a share of the food. My mother has to treat quite a few upset stomachs at first, but she likes that better than starvation.   
  
I can hunt freely, and no longer have to hide my weapons. More and more weapons become evident - spears, mostly. People want to be prepared just in case this is too good to be true. But Gale and I are the only real hunters in the district, and fresh meat is still worth something even when people aren’t hungry. Prim’s face gets rounder, and she smiles every day.   
  
I make some money by selling furs and skins at the new Trade Center. It’s new, a place where people from other districts can come to sell and buy goods. There aren’t many yet, but it’s a start, and I find myself popular with merchants from several districts. Rabbit and squirrel furs are warmer than nothing, even if they aren’t the fancy thick furs I’ve seen on people from the Capitol. Beaver is worth even more, when I can get it, but I don’t haggle too hard. The merchants aren’t like the ones in town - they’re ordinary people like me who want practical things, like furs to protect their hands against winter chill, or the herbs that can only be found in the woods.   
  
My mother trades some of her medicines, too, for herbs from the other districts. Medicines from the Capitol are easier to get now, but they’re still expensive and best kept for emergencies. For smaller things, most people prefer my mother’s remedies or the apothecary’s.   
  
For the first time since I can remember, we have enough money to save some, without going hungry. Prim has new shoes that fit, and my mother looks less worn than she has in years.   
  
I am walking home from the Trade Center with coins in my pocket, feeling strangely giddy, when I pass the bakery. On impulse, I decide to spend a little money on a treat - three of the iced cookies that are in the window, little things with tiny flowers on them. It’s a luxury, but I sold two beaver pelts today and am almost used to eating my fill. Prim has always loved those flower cookies. I’ll get us one each.   
  
When I step into the bakery, there is no-one visible. It’s almost closing time, so perhaps they weren’t expecting a customer. There’s a bell on the counter, and my hand is reaching towards it when I hear a raised voice from the kitchen behind the shop. “Look what you’ve done!” Mrs Mellark shrieked. “Look at it! Wasting the colours, wasting the sugar, and for what?” I hear a slap, loud enough to be clear even through a closed door.   
  
My fists clench. Everyone knows she does this, but nobody does anything. If I ring the bell, at least she’ll have to leave him alone for a minute - but she hates me. Seeing me might make her more angry, might remind her -   
  
“Waste, that’s all you are!” She sounds furious, almost demented. “Nothing but a burden, a crippled waste of food and space…  and for what? Trying to save a Seam brat? _Her_ brat! Moron! Waste!” I hear another, duller impact, and I recognise it as something hard striking flesh. I also hear a groan.  
  
I am less angry these days than I remember being since my father died. I actually wake up happy some days. But at this moment I am enraged. How dare that woman, how _dare_ she? It takes me only a moment to hop over the counter and open the door behind it, a moment more to be through it and in the bakery’s kitchen.   
  
Peeta is on the ground, his crutch beside him. Even as I step through the door, his mother brings the rolling-pin down on his shoulder, then slams it across his temple on the backswing. The skin breaks, and he slumps, his eyes glazed and stunned. There’s a spilled bowl of pale purple frosting on the floor - did he knock it over? Is that the waste she meant?  
  
I don’t care. She raises the rolling-pin again and I come up behind her fast, ripping it out of her hand. Nobody does anything to stop her. The men don’t intervene because that’s her husband’s job, and because most of them aren’t willing to strike a woman - at least not one who isn’t related to them. The women don’t report her because the community home would be worse for the boys - at least at the bakery they eat all right. But I am here and I _will_ stop her.   
  
I am so incandescently angry that I honestly believe I could have killed that woman in that moment. I’ve killed in battle, and this feels no different to me. She’s lucky it was a rolling pin she used on Peeta, not a knife.  As it is, I backhand her across the face as hard as I can with the length of wood, knocking her back against the wall. She collapses on the floor, making garbled noises, and I see that her jaw looks strange. I’ve dislocated or broken it. Well, good.   
  
Peeta is clearly stunned, and when I look I find a swelling lump on the other side of his head that must be the second blow I heard through the door, the one that knocked him down. He is half-conscious at best - with my help, he manages to get up on his remaining foot, but he doesn’t seem to know who I am or what’s going on. I can’t leave him here.   
  
“I’m taking him home,” I tell his mother, who is staring at me in stunned fear. “And you can explain this to your husband however you want.” The baker is a kind man, but right now I hate him for being so weak. He should have stopped this long ago.   
  
Mrs Mellark garbles something, but I ignore her, helping Peeta out of the open back door. Between me and his crutch he manages to stay upright, but he’s weaving badly and I don’t know how to get him home. It’s a long way to drag someone, especially someone heavier than I am.   
  
In the end I spend the coins meant for cookies on bringing home the baker’s boy instead, paying a couple of Seam boys who work at the hardware store to carry Peeta back on a plank. I expect to be teased about it, but they know what he did for Prim. After one look at Peeta, they pile him onto a broad plank of wood and carry him to my house without a word.   
  
He looks up at me on the way, his eyes still clouded. “Did you get out?” he asks, frowning. “Did you get out of the school?”   
  
He must be remembering the bombing, I realize. The last time he felt this way was probably then. So I take his hand awkwardly. “Yes, we got out,” I reassure him. “It’s going to be okay now.” I’m not good at being reassuring, but I want to do something for him after all he’s done for me.   
  
He looks past me and smiles up at the late summer sunset. “Pretty,” he tells me earnestly.   
  
“Very pretty,” I agree inanely, not knowing what to say.   
  
“Concussion,” one of the boys tells me, as if I didn’t already know that. “Keep him awake.”  
  
My mother’s daughter knows perfectly well what to do about a concussion - well, I know to keep him awake and get him to my mother - so I keep talking to him as we walk. He’s thinner than I remember him being, perhaps as a result of the long fever after losing his leg. But that was months ago, and there’s been plenty of food since then. He shouldn’t look like this.   
  
He holds my hand as if it is a lifeline, but he doesn’t squeeze or crush it. His big hand is gentle around my smaller one, holding it as carefully as I held Prim’s when she was little. It seems to help him, so I let him do it even though it make me feel strange and unsettled. I usually don't let anyone but Prim touch me.   
  
My mother has had plenty of people carried in to her on a board (this particular one, wide enough to carry even a full-grown man, is kept at the hardware store for precisely this purpose, stained so often with blood that nothing can get it clean). She clears our table quickly, helping the boys to ease Peeta onto it, and only then gives me a startled look. "This is the boy from the bakery?"   
  
She looks at Prim, and so do I. Prim is already putting down the mending she was working on, and comes to stand beside Peeta, her eyes filling with tears. "Oh, Katniss, what happened?"   
  
I don't answer until I have given the boys their coins and sent them away. "His mother," I say when I have closed the door behind them. "She was using a rolling pin."   
  
My mother's lips tighten, and for the first time since I was ten I feel a brief surge of affection for her. I may never forgive her for her collapse after our father's death, but she has never struck us. Never been cruel or hurtful. Prim and I never had to be afraid to come home.   
  
She examines Peeta with gentle hands, her mouth tightening to a straight flat line. "How did you get him out?" she asks crisply, wiping blood off the cut on his temple.   
  
I find myself looking at the floor sheepishly. "I took the rolling pin away and hit her in the face with it," I admit in a small voice. Will I get into trouble for this? Before, nobody would have turned me in to the Peacekeepers for something like this, but it's only been three months since the war ended and nobody seems to be quite sure what the new rules are.   
  
"Good," my mother said flatly, and I've rarely heard her sound so angry. "I hope you broke her jaw."

"It might only have been dislocated," I say in an even smaller voice. "But.. uhm... maybe."   
  
For once, I don't run away while my mother and Prim start treating the injured person. I want to, but I feel I owe it to Peeta to watch over him. So I try not to look, but when he reaches out I let him take my hand again, and even pat his a few times. When I look up, both my mother and Prim are watching me with startled eyes. "He saved Prim," I snap, feeling my cheeks heat up. "And he gave us bread. I owe him."   
  
"We all do," Prim says seriously, unfastening his shirt. His chest and stomach are marked with old and new bruises, and I have to look away again.   
  
"We're keeping him," I say, the words escaping from my mouth before I can think about them. They both stare at me again. "What?" I ask grumpily, giving Prim a reproachful look for not siding with me. "I let you keep the stupid cat."  
  
Prim smiles at me. "You tried to _drown_ the stupid cat."  
  
"But I didn't. Anyway, he's better than a cat. He's more useful." As I say the words, I know how feeble they sound. A boy with a missing foot is little more than dead weight in the Seam, where almost all the work requires two strong legs and arms. Peeta's mother isn't alone in feeling that a crippled child is a burden at best and a waste of food at worst, though few people take that resentment as far as she does.   
  
When he saved Prim, Peeta lost a lot. He's lucky - he can probably still work at the bakery, although he'll never be as useful as he was when he could make deliveries and shop for flour and so on. But I've noticed that the town girls ignore him now, and even girls from the Seam don't take much interest in a boy with only one foot, job or not. We might have food now, but a lifetime's habits are hard to break, and what girl will waste time on a boy, even a town boy, who might not be able to take care of her and her children?  
  
Me. Not in *that* way... I have no intention of getting married, and don't see the point of all that fussing over boys and girls. But he lost a lot when he helped Prim, and I owe him for that. I always will.   
  
"I'm not a cat," Peeta tells me, his eyes open again. Then he smiles at me. He has a nice smile, warm and sort of sweet. "I can bake. Cats can't bake."  
  
"See?" I say, carefully not looking anyone in the eye. "Useful." I wonder if Greasy Sae could use help. She's getting old... and maybe Peeta could bake rolls to go with the soup, or something. Even with enough food to go around, everyone in the Seam has to work hard to get by. They can't buy bread at the bakery except for special occasions, but Peeta could make the heavy rolls or grain cakes we eat here, saving time for the women who have to make their own now, taking payment in trade instead of rare coins..   
  
"He may not want to stay," my mother says gently, seeing that Peeta's eyes have lost focus again. "We'll see what he says when his head clears." But she doesn't say no. She, too, knows what we owe Peeta Mellark.  
  
Peeta sleeps in my bed that night. Prim curls up with my mother, and I make up a bed by the fireplace. That would usually be where a sick person would sleep, but Peeta doesn't need the extra warmth of the fire, and he's so bruised that he needs a soft bed. That's what I say, anyway, and I refuse to acknowledge the odd looks my mother and sister keep giving me.  
  
He doesn't wake until we've finished breakfast, but when I go in with a tray he is sitting up, looking puzzled. "Where am I?" he asks, and then he looks at my face. For some reason, he suddenly blushes furiously.   
  
"In my house." He's wearing an old nightshirt of my father's, and I'm surprised to see that it fits. I remember my father as being so tall... but then, I was much smaller then. "Do you think you can keep food down?"   
  
He looks kind of green. "I wouldn't bet on it." His hand comes up, touching the bandages around his head. "What... how did I get here?"  
  
"I brought you here." Somehow, this subject is painfully embarrassing, and I hand him the cup of mint tea quickly, hoping it will be a distraction. "Here. This might help settle your stomach."   
  
He sips it, frowning. "I... everything's fuzzy," he admits. "I was frosting a cake, and then..." He trails off, and his face reddens again. "My mother," he says very quietly, and it's not a question. "She... lost her temper again, didn't she?"   
  
I nod, glad I don't have to tell him that. "She gave you a concussion... you spilled some frosting, I think. When I came in, you were already stunned."   
  
"You came in?" Even his ears are a dull red now. "You shouldn't... I mean, thank you, I guess, but..."  
  
He's embarrassed, I realize. Boys get so strange about things like that, as if it's all right for a girl to be rescued by a boy but not the other way around. Normally I have less than no patience with that kind of stupidity, but it occurs to me that a boy with one foot probably already feels helpless enough, without needing to be rescued by a girl significantly smaller than he is.   
  
So I sit down on the edge of the bed, a little awkwardly, and look at him. "Well, someone had to," I tell him. "She knew you weren't going to hit back. You couldn't. She's a woman, and your mother, of course you couldn't hit her." I've always wondered about that, but it's true. Kids whose parents hit them usually don't hit back, even if they get bigger than the parent. It's like some part of you always thinks your parents are bigger than you are.   
  
"Well... no." He frowns a little. "But - "  
  
"But I'm a girl, and I don't owe her anything," I say flatly. "So I could take the rolling pin away from her and hit _her_ with it, and I did. After what she said about my sister, she's lucky that's all I did," I add, to make it seem like I wasn't doing it just to protect him.   
  
He does look a little less embarrassed. "I don't... you don't owe me anything," he says slowly. "For Prim, during the bombing."  
  
"Yes I do." I look away from him, trying not to snap. I hate owing people, but I hate even worse when someone does me a favour then tries not to let me pay it back. "You've saved her life twice now. I'll owe you forever."  
  
He sounds puzzled. "Twice?"  
  
I shrug one shoulder. "The bread."  
  
"But..." When I look at him, he's staring at me. "But it was just a couple of loaves. How was it enough to - "  
  
"It kept us alive long enough for me to find other food." My voice is clipped, almost angry, but I can't make  it sound any other way. "It made the difference."   
  
He sighs quietly. "Then I wish I'd burned more," he says quietly.   
  
As quickly as that, the question that's bothered me for four years is answered. He did do it on purpose. He burned the bread for me, knowing how his mother would react. Even then, when he'd never even spoken to me, he'd been willing to get hurt himself to help me. It doesn't make any sense - who would do so much for someone he doesn't even know?   
  
I get off the bed, picking up the tray again a little too quickly. "I'll put this away for later. Mom says not to force yourself to eat if you feel queasy." The bowl of mush will keep all right, and I don't want to talk to him any more right now. It's too unsettling.   
  
But I realize I haven't told him the most important thing, and so I stop at the doorway. "You can stay," I tell the doorframe. "With us, I mean. You don't have to go back there."   
  
"Stay?" His voice is unsteady. "Here?"  
  
"You don't have to if you don't want to." Of course he wouldn't want to - who'd live in the Seam when they were used to town? Well, except for someone like my mother, foolishly in love. But shabby as our house was, it was better than where he'd been, now that food was easily come by. "But you saved Prim. That... that makes you sort of family."   
  
I bolt before he can answer, and I'm glad that I have to hurry off to school.   
  
Nobody seems to know, at school, where Peeta is. He's missed plenty of time because of his leg, so I'm not sure even the teacher pays much attention. After school I go to the Hob, and oddly enough it's there that I'm asked about him. If he's all right. If his head has cleared. Greasy Sae gives me a bowl of soup for him, and refuses payment.   
  
It's because of Prim, I realize. Everyone knows what he did for her, and everyone likes Prim, so they take an interest in Peeta too, passing over the usual division between town and seam. Agnes, who lost her youngest son when the school blew up, leaves her stall for a minute and comes back with a shirt and pair of pants that belonged to Symon. They'll be a little big for Peeta, but at least he'll have something clean. I promise to return them, and she sighs and tells me not to bother - there's no-one in her family who can wear them any more.   
  
When I get back, Prim is sitting on the end of our bed, talking to Peeta while my mother cleans the stump of his leg. He looks embarrassed, and even more so when I come in, though I'm not sure why. "I brought some of Sae's soup," I tell my mother, setting the bowl down beside the bed. "She sent it for you," I add, addressing Peeta only a little stiffly. "She said it would build you up. It's barley and... maybe goat?" Actually, I think it's the wild dog I sold her two days ago, but if I tell him that he probably won't eat it, and Sae's soup is pretty good.   
  
He nods, looking shy. "Thank you. And... and thank you for offering to let me stay," he says quietly. "I'm not sure - "  
  
"You don't have to," I snap, feeling foolishly hurt. "I was just - "  
  
"I'd like to," he says, and a sad note in his voice somehow drains the anger out of me. "I would. But not if it's going to make trouble for you or your family, or... the emergency food supplies won't last forever. I don't want to be a burden."   
  
"You wouldn't be." To my surprise, it's my mother who says that, sounding calm and matter-of-fact. "An extra pair of hands is always useful. You don't need to walk far to help me make up my medicines, or treat sick people. Prim's still too small, and Katniss comes over all giddy at the sight of blood - "  
  
"I do not!" I protest. "I just don't like it!"  
  
"You don't like it so much that you turn green and start backing towards the door the moment someone comes in oozing," my mother says, and as much as I resent the scolding tone, I am glad she says it. I can see on Peeta's face that he believes her, that he would actually be a help in a way I can't be. "If you can handle blood and infection without turning dizzy, a second pair of hands would make a big difference for me, especially if we get someone too big for me to turn or move on my own."  
  
Peeta nods slowly. "I didn't think of that," he says, and his face is brighter already. But then the brightness fades. "But... I'd have to talk to my father. He'll want me to come back."   
  
But it isn't Peeta's father who shows up that evening. It's his oldest brother, Teff. He works in the hardware store, I remember - he's twenty now, and he somehow saved up enough to buy an interest in the store when he married the owner's youngest niece. He looks like Peeta, with the same soft eyes and waving hair. When he sits down on the edge of the bed, he takes Peeta's hand with the same gentleness with which Peeta held mine. "Hey, little brother," he says quietly. "How are you?"  
  
Peeta smiles crookedly. "I've had worse."   
  
"I know." Teff sighs. "You could come and stay with me and Eve," he says softly, "but you know she'll know where to find you. She's angrier than I've ever seen her - she was ranting about how she wouldn't let you set foot in the bakery again, after the apothecary put her jaw back in place."  
  
Peeta flinches, and I wonder if I should leave. I'm not sure why I stayed in the room in the first place, but I feel... protective of Peeta, for some reason. He's mine now. Like Prim. Like the stupid goat and the stupider cat. I took care of him, that makes him mine. "Katniss and Mrs Everdeen said I could stay here," he says quietly, glancing at me. "But... but I don't want to be a burden on them, or get them in trouble."   
  
"Stay." Teff looks at me too. "She won't come here," he adds, as if in explanation. "And my father won't let her complain to anyone. Plenty of people saw him being carried away from the bakery. If she makes a fuss, she's going to wind up in the stocks and she knows it."   
  
I nod, relieved. She can't claim that I made some sort of unprovoked attack on her, not when people saw me taking Peeta away on a board. And the mayor won't punish me without punishing her as well, if she pushes it. "He can help my mother with the medicines and sick people. He won't be a burden."   
  
To my surprise - and clearly to Peeta's - Teff actually laughs at that. "He wouldn't be anyway. Give them a week, and our parents will _have_ to take him back at the bakery, if not to live - and pay him the wage they weren't before." I look bewildered, and he shrugs. "All the fancy cakes and biscuits, that people save up to be able to afford? He decorates them. Our father's a good baker, but he's as artistic as a slug - and our mother's worse. Since our grandfather died, there was only ever two members of the family who could do the fancy work, and _I'm_ not going back, not after this."   
  
Peeta looks stunned, and I see his fingers tighten around his brother's. "I didn't think... I mean..."  
  
"I left for a reason." Teff's voice is hard. "I have a good trade now, and a wife who wouldn't lift a hand to a stray kitten, let alone her own child. If they want the money, they'll have to pay you what we all know you're worth, foot or no foot. Don't settle for a pittance, either - their income will halve without you, and she should have known that."   
  
"But Dad..." Peeta's voice trails off. To my surprise, his jaw hardens. "Well. He made his choice, didn't he?"  
  
"Years ago." Teff nods, and squeezes Peeta's hand again. Then he digs in his pocket and holds out a handful of coins to me. "This should cover his food and medicine for a little while," he says seriously. "Until he can do it himself."   
  
I take the money, though we wouldn't have asked for it. Teff may not have been able to protect his little brother, but he clearly wants to do something for him, and I can understand that. "Thank you. My mother says he'll be fine," I add, wanting him to know. "He can even go to school tomorrow if he wants to, although she thinks he should wait one more day."  
  
Teff nods. “It’ll be okay,” he tells Peeta quietly. “I’ll work things out with Dad. I’ve got a hostage now, so that helps.” Peeta frowns, and Teff laughs. “Eve’s pregnant,” he explains, sounding proud of it. Men always do, as if what they did to make it happen was so impressive. “If they want to see their grandchild, they’ll have to behave.”   
  
That I do understand. If Teff refuses to let his parents see the baby, everyone will talk - even more than they will if Peeta moves into my house. “Is she having morning sickness yet? My mother has a tea for that.”   
  
Teff nods. “I’ll ask her for some, then. And… thank you. For this.” He jerks his head at Peeta, who blushes and looks embarrassed again.   
  
I shrug. “He saved my sister’s life,” I say as if that’s all that matters, because to me it is.   
  
Peeta’s father comes the next day with a bag containing Peeta’s possessions. My mother doesn’t let him into the house, but her voice comes in through the window in disjointed scraps. “Let it happen… appalling… bruises everywhere…” Peeta’s father responds in a quiet mumble that we don’t catch.  
  
My mother’s last words, however, are crystal clear. “You always were a coward, Danny Mellark,” she says, her voice harsh. “Always taking the easy way out.”   
  
She brings the bag in and gives it to Peeta, her lips in that tight line again. Prim offers to help him unpack, and he agrees. I like the way he speaks to Prim, as seriously as if she were our age. So many boys treat younger children, especially girls, as if they were some kind of semi-intelligent house-pet.   
  
He has what most people have. A few clothes. Comb and toothbrush. A few odds and ends. But under all that is a flat wooden box, a big one, and Peeta sighs when he sees it. “She didn’t burn it,” he said softly, touching the box as gently and lovingly as Prim strokes her awful cat.   
  
“What is it?” Prim asks, and I’m glad because I’m dying to know and don’t want to admit it.   
  
Peeta hesitates, his fair skin colouring. “Promise not to laugh,” he says shyly, and he waits until I’ve nodded as well as Prim. Then he opens the box.   
  
It’s paper, sheets and sheets of paper. The big sheets of scratchy beige stuff from school, that the younger kids draw on and the older ones with a bent for engineering use to draft mine maps and shoring plans. Old work-sheets from the homework books. Any scrap of paper he could get his hands on, by the look of it, even the brown stuff used to wrap rolls of fabric.   
  
And on the paper, often smudged but still beautiful, there are drawings in charcoal. Many of them are cakes, or plans for them, and Prim oohs and aahs over every pretty confection. But others are even better. Birds in flight, the shape of wing and tail perfectly captured. A spray of apple-blossom. Several comical piglets. A few kids from our classes. A couple of drawings of Prim, her little face alight with a smile or distant with dreams. And, though I can tell he’s trying to hide them, two of me. Prim loves these, especially the one of me in a tree, kneeling on a branch, with an arrow on my bowstring. I know when that was, though Prim doesn’t… it was when the men in grey uniforms came for our rebel Peacekeepers. I wasn’t far from the bakery, I remember now… Peeta must have seen me.   
  
I like that picture. He has made me look strong and confident, and it reminds me of fighting for my home and my people. Peeta blushes when he sees me looking at it, and puts the rest of the pictures away quickly, but he doesn’t stop Prim from showing the pictures of us to our mother. She admires them, and her smile quivers a little when she sees me in the tree. “You look so much like your father sometimes,” she says softly, and hurries away to make dinner.   
  
Peeta insists on returning my bed to me. He will sleep in the other room, with a bed laid out in a corner. My mother says she will screen it off with a curtain, so he can have a little privacy. And for the first time since I can remember, there are four of us instead of three at our table.   
  
It makes me uncomfortable that it _isn’t_ uncomfortable. Peeta Mellark should be alien to us, but he isn’t. He looks like my mother and sister, with his fair hair and blue eyes. He is as quiet as my mother, as gentle as Prim. It is almost as if I am the interloper on a perfect, happy family.   
  
Then he looks over the table at me and smiles that shy smile, and I get an odd feeling in my stomach. There has been so little relief in my life that it takes time to identify the feeling now, and longer to figure out why I feel it. It is only at night, when Prim’s head is resting on my shoulder, that it comes to me. I am not the only one taking care of Prim. Peeta has risked his life and his livelihood to keep her alive, and because of that I trust him to take care of her now. I remember how kindly he spoke to her, the way they chattered over dinner, and something inside me relaxes.   
  
Now I know why I wanted him here. He is the only person besides myself I trust to take care of my sister, who is the only person I am sure I love. I will have to take care of him, to some extent, to provide food if more shortages come up, but I don’t mind that. I don’t even mind all the talk I know there will be. There is someone else to take care of Prim now, and the relief almost makes me giddy.   
  
When I sleep that night, I have no nightmares, and I wake to hear Prim laughing.


	3. Adaption

  
I am fifteen when everyone at school finds out that a boy is living in my house.  
  
It goes better than I expect it to. There are giggles and sly whispers and jokes, but not as many as I expect. The secret of Peeta’s mother and her ready hand is a far more open one now that Peeta has been seen being carried, battered and bloody, away from the bakery. He is hardly the first to seek refuge from a violent parent, even in town. In the Seam, it is even more common.   
  
That he moved to the Seam, well, that’s a lot more unusual. But everyone knows that he lost his foot saving Prim, and therefore everyone from the Seam understands that I owe him. That as a hunter, I am better able than most to stretch our food to cover another person than almost anyone else in Twelve. When Eve’s pregnancy becomes apparent, the last whispers die away. With a baby on the way, Teff’s resources will be stretched enough without feeding a brother as well. I, on the other hand, have never done better.   
  
When he sees me blushing and angry when someone calls an obscene suggestion after us, Peeta shrugs. “Just ignore it,” he says softly, his face getting that strange, faintly sad look it does sometimes. “If we just… act as if we’re friends, as if it’s never occurred to us to be anything else, they’ll start feeling stupid after a while.”  
  
To my surprise, being Peeta’s friend at school is easy. He is good company, with a wry sense of humour and a way of making anything seem less bad than it is. He and Madge and I become our own small circle of friends, pleasantly indifferent to what anyone else says or does.   
  
Outside of school, it’s more complicated, but not in a bad way. Peeta is a friend, but he’s also family. He cooks with my mother, helps Prim with her studies, brings home treats from the bakery.   
  
It took his mother nearly three weeks to crack, but eventually they had to come crawling back. The bakery window was a disaster for weeks, people were talking, and Teff flatly refused to even set foot in it. The middle brother, Andama, has a distinct bent for mathematics, no artistic skill at all and appears to be completely colour-blind judging by his one attempt at filling the window. Though that might have been deliberate - Andy seems no more sympathetic to his parents’ plight than Teff.  
  
Peeta would probably have gone back for less than he was worth, but Teff handled the negotiations for him. A month after he moves in with us, Peeta is working two hours after school every day and all day Sunday, in return for a small wage and a loaf of day-old bread every other day. Even a little old, the bread is good. I did not know what a relief it would be to have someone else bringing in food. With the bread Peeta brings home and my game and other goodies gleaned from the woods, we are able to store some of the cans and bags of dried grains and beans for winter.   
  
Two months after he moves in with us, it is hard to imagine life without Peeta. Even though he cannot walk without the crutch, he is invaluable in a hundred ways. He somehow knows how to smooth me down when I am angry and prickly. He can coax a smile from my mother when her mood turns bleak. He and Prim understand each other so well that I am sometimes jealous, but that jealousy fades when he puts bread on our table, when he lifts a patient for my mother, when he draws birds and flowers and little animals on the hearthstone for Prim with scraps of charcoal.   
  
Then I feel nothing but relief and happiness. I am *not alone*. For the first time, I have some vague understanding of why one might want to be married. Partnership is so much easier than being alone.  
  
“I just don’t know why you wanted to take on another mouth to feed,” Gale says one Sunday when we’re out hunting. “Don’t get me wrong, Mellark seems like a nice guy. But you had enough trouble with just Prim and your mother. I have two brothers, and believe me, feeding boys is harder.”  
  
We’ve never talked about Peeta before, and I am surprised he’s doing it now. “It’s not like that. I don’t have to feed him.”  
  
“Maybe not now, but the food bonuses run out in spring. What will you do then?” Gale sounds… frustrated, maybe. It’s hard to tell.   
  
I shrug. I don’t like thinking about that - it’s been so nice to have enough to eat - but nobody really expected the food to come forever. Most people I know have put at least a little away to get them through the next winter. “We’ll still be better off than we were before. He has a job, Gale. He brings home a little money every week, and some bread. It’s old, but not too stale.”   
  
“For now,” Gale mutters, as if he’s reluctant to admit that I might have a point. “Why did you even ask him to stay with you? What about his brother?”  
  
“Teff and his wife live in two rooms over the hardware store and they’re about to have a baby.” We see Eve regularly. She prefers my mother to the apothecary when it comes to pregnancy advice and treatment for her nausea. She’s fair, but she has Seam-grey eyes, plenty of common-sense and a biting wit that I like. I like her, and she knows as well as I do that we need Peeta more than she does.   
  
“ _You_ live in two rooms, Katniss. And there’s three of you already.”   
  
“But no babies.” It’s weak and I know it. “It’s not the same, Gale. We hunt together because it’s easier with a partner, right?”  
  
“Yes.” He draws out the answer, as if he already knows he doesn’t like where this is going.   
  
“Well, taking care of Prim and my mom is easier with a partner, too.” I don’t like talking about it, but I find that I like the idea that Gale thinks Peeta is a pitiable burden even less. “He’s not like you, Gale. He doesn’t have a family to feed. He can take care of mine without letting anyone else down.”   
  
“Oh.” For some reason Gale sounds less annoyed now. “I didn’t… I guess I didn’t think of it that way. With my family, I can’t - “  
  
“Exactly.” It’s a relief that he understands, and I lay a hand on his arm in a moment of rare affection. He is one of my closest friends, after all. “I wouldn’t want you to. We have responsibilities. But Peeta doesn’t, not that kind of responsibilities. If he’s helping my mom with a patient or Prim with her school-work, while I’m out hunting or foraging, he’s not leaving anyone else in the lurch. You couldn’t do those things.”   
  
Gale nods slowly. “You’re right. I didn’t think of that. And…” He blushes, something I’ve never seen him do before. “And I know it’s not true, the things some people said at first. About you and him.” He addresses that last part to a tree, which is probably wise.   
  
I know what people say about me and Peeta, but it bothers me more coming from Gale. He should know me better. “Of course it’s not. We’re friends, and I owe him, that’s all.” My voice is sharp, and I move ahead of him so I don’t have to look at his stupid face. “I don’t want a boyfriend. I’m never getting married, so it’d just be a waste of time.”   
  
After a moment, he catches up to me. “Why don’t you want to get married?” he asks, sounding really puzzled. “I thought all girls wanted to get married.”   
  
“Not me. Not ever.” And that’s the last word I say to him that day. He’s smart enough to know what the look on my face means, and he doesn’t push it.   
  
That night, I lie awake thinking about it. I’ve never wanted to get married, but it’s only now that I realise that the reasons I’ve always had - the Capitol, the Hunger Games, the fear of starvation - no longer exist. Yet I still feel the same way. The idea of having a baby I might lose to a hard winter or sickness, even if not to the Hunger Games, is terrifying. I don’t want that.   
  
And the whole process of getting them is just… unpleasant. My mother explained what it is men and women do together to make babies, and while she tried to tell me it was supposed to be fun, I couldn’t see the appeal at all. I still don’t. I don’t understand the fuss people make about kissing or any of that.   
  
For the first time, I remember that my mother said that it’s nice when you’re with someone you love. Maybe that’s it? Maybe if you fall in love, being so close to them seems nice instead of skin-creepingly unpleasant.   
  
I decide that if I ever fall in love, I’ll worry about it then.   
  
That winter is a hard one. The new government may be generous with food, but that doesn’t help anyone when the trains can’t run for over a month because of the snow. We are lucky - though coal is still expensive, with the fence down there is plenty of forest out there, full of wood. Gale and I guide groups of men out several times, on rare sunny days, to the places where we know there is deadfall in plenty. Old, dry wood burns best, even if you have to dig it out of the snow first, and improvised runners make it possible for large sections of tree to be pulled back by a few men over the packed snow. We go to the sheltered places to gather wood for our own families, fallen branches we can carry in bundles. It helps, and so does the food we were able to store for winter - though my mother gives away some of that to the poorest families, the ones who couldn’t supplement their food bonuses with work or trade. I want to stop her, but I can’t turn the hungry children away either.   
  
There is one terrible storm that rages for days, when it’s so cold that snow tracked into the house doesn’t melt, it just lies there. Thankfully it starts at night, so we are all at home. The thought of what would have happened to Prim if it had struck during the day - or worse, to Peeta, who can’t run for shelter - gives me cold sweats for weeks afterwards.   
  
And yet, during the storm, there is a strange kind of cheer. Peeta, ever practical, piles up all the blankets and bedding in front of the fireplace, then moves his curtain so that it blocks off some of the drafts from the door and windows. Dressed in our warmest clothes, we all huddle together under the blankets, drinking soup made from snowmelt and beans and dried meat. We tell stories - Peeta and Prim are the best at that. On the second day, Prim nestles against me and coaxes me to sing. To my surprise I feel like singing, for the first time since my father died. I sing my defiance of the storm and the cosiness of my family in the soft lullabies that Prim likes best, and the ballads my father taught me. The only one I avoid is ‘The Hanging Tree’, for my mother’s sake.   
  
When I look over at Peeta as I finish a second rendition of ‘Down in the Meadow’, there is a look on his face I can’t identify. He looks at me as if… as if I am the first shipment of food after the war was over. As if I am a dandelion in spring. It is disturbing, and I look away, my voice trailing off.   
  
“Sing another one,” Prim murmurs sleepily. Her head is on my lap, and she is gazing into the small fire. “Sing ‘The Trees Grow High’.”   
  
“That one is too sad,” I protest, though it’s foolish. They’re almost all too sad, really, but the music is so beautiful that it doesn’t matter.   
  
“Please?” Prim coaxes.  
  
I would say no, if Peeta didn’t say it too, very quietly. When I look at him again, he looks sad and… and longing, somehow. Suddenly I realise that this is probably something new to him. Did his family ever gather to sing and tell stories? I can’t imagine his mother singing to him, even when he was little. Can’t imagine her holding him in her lap while his father sings, the way my mother did. Somehow, it’s hard to imagine that there was much laughter in that house, let alone music.   
  
I feel guilty for looking away, for being disturbed by that expression on his face. At least the first eleven years of my life were happy. I felt loved and safe. Peeta is only now finding what I had for so long, and I get twitchy over it?   
  
So I sing ‘The Trees Grow High’, a soft, sad ballad about love lost, a boy of our age dying and leaving a wife and child behind. Then, as Prim dozes off, I teach Peeta the words to ‘Down In The Meadow’. Unlike most of them it is a happy song, and it turns out that Peeta has a nice voice. We sing it together at last, voices twining softly, and I feel as content as I ever remember being. The storm is out there, but my family is in here and safe.   
  
The food bonus ends in the spring. To everyone’s surprise, we are ordered again to hand over not only our remaining Peacekeepers, but the ‘counter-revolutionaries’ who have been supporting them. The mayor and Haymitch Abernathy both appeal to the new authorities, but without success.  Unless we hand over the ‘insurgents’, we will be penalised.   
  
It would be nice to say that nobody wanted to hand the men - only eleven now, after old Feron’s heart gave out during the winter - over to the government. Of course there were some who did. Plenty of them, actually. But the mayor gathered everyone together and took a vote, and we voted two-thirds to one-third that nobody was taking any of our people away. Those who voted for sending them at least had the grace to look ashamed when Emily clung to her husband and cried. She’s pregnant again, already showing. I guess it’s nice that they love each other, but I don’t know what he sees in her. She cries over _everything_.  
  
Still, since I’m the one who shot an arrow into the soldier last time, I may be a little biased in my relief that no ‘insurgents’ will be handed over to the men in grey.   
  
After that, they go away again. The food coming in drops back to close to what it was before. A little more, perhaps. But things are different now. We can hunt outside the fence, or forage, without fear of penalty. Plenty of people have started little gardens with seeds traded for last year. Gale and I are no longer the only hunters, though the others tend to stay close to the Meadow.   
  
Gale starts trapping rabbits alive, and selling them in pairs or trios. It’s a good idea. Rabbits aren’t demanding eaters - children can gather enough grass, dandelions and other goodies to keep them going. They breed fast, the meat is good and the furs are worth a little money. Soon most families have a hutch for rabbits. I take some of the money we saved and go to the Goat Man. This time the goats I bring home are healthy, and Prim is ecstatic. Soon all three of the silly things are following her around as if she’s their mother.  
  
When I turn sixteen, Peeta brings home a very small cake from the bakery. It is clear that he made it for me - it is frosted in grass-green, my favourite colour, and on the round top a little bird - a mockingjay -  peeks out of the grass. I don’t know how much it cost him, but my throat goes tight and I can only hug him and mumble my thanks. He hugs me back, and seems to understand. When I hesitate to cut into it and ruin the tiny bird, he smiles and gives me the sketch he drew first, so I can keep it and eat my cake too.   
  
It is even better than turning fifteen. I am part of a family again, not a broken fragment that I must hold together all alone. If food is no longer lavishly dispensed, we have enough and a little to spare. And we are still free, no matter what the new government says. No-one will ever be taken away from District Twelve again.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘The Trees Grow High’ is a folk song that has been in circulation since the seventeenth or eighteenth century, under various names, most commonly ‘The Trees They Do Grow High’ or 'Daily Growing'. It is a sad song, but the version my mother used as a lullaby had a beautiful tune and I have always remembered it.


	4. The Price Of Disobedience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have found the version of 'The Trees They Do Grow High' that my mother sang to me as a child, as recorded by Pentangle in 1968. If you want to hear it - and Jacqui McShee's voice is perfect for Katniss, who can silence the birds with her song - you can find it on Youtube here --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8fEm3LdvGw

  
I am sixteen when my friend Madge comes home with me from school one day in mid-summer, saying she needs to speak to my mother.   
  
I wonder why. I am not ashamed of my home - though it is small and shabby, it is _mine_ and therefore precious to me - but Madge is the mayor’s daughter and she never usually comes down to the Seam. Perhaps, like several of the Seam girls, she wants to find out ways of doing… married things… without having a baby. Madge has never seemed interested in that sort of thing, but perhaps she wouldn’t tell me if she was. We don’t talk about things like that, and Peeta is always with us at school anyway.   
  
To my surprise, Madge makes no attempt to speak to my mother privately. “My mother asked me to talk to you,” she says simply. "It's about Haymitch Abernathy."   
  
Ruth blinks. "Heavens," she says slowly. "I haven't talked to Haymitch in more than twenty years. I didn't think Merilee had, either."   
  
Prim and I stare at my mother. "You talked to him before that?" Prim asks, ever curious.   
  
"We were at school at the same time," my mother says unexpectedly. "We weren't close, but we were friendly enough. My friend Maysilee - Merilee's twin - was taken in the same Reaping he was. Haymitch was her ally for a while." Her eyes are distant and sad. "When she died, he sat with her and held her hand. Merilee and I never forgot that."   
  
Prim's eyes are damp, and my throat tightens. The Games may be over, but they are still so much a part of our world that it's hard to remember sometimes that they're gone.   
  
Madge is nodding. "Mom is worried about him. His stipend stopped coming this spring, and he wasn't invited to the big Victor's council thing this summer. He was part of the revolution, everyone knows that, but..." She trails off.   
  
"But the Peacekeepers," my mother says, surprising me. "And Katniss and the others who defended them. He wouldn't hand them over, so they stopped his stipend?"  
  
Madge nods. "He had some food stored, I guess. He seemed okay for a while. But he's losing weight now, bad, and he looks sick. Mom says she knows he won't come to you, Mrs Everdeen, but maybe you could go to him. For Maysilee."   
  
My mother nods. "I'll go," she says at once. "Katniss, will you come with me? We can spare some food, and some milk from the goats. You can help me carry it. Prim, you wait until Peeta comes home from the bakery and tell him where we are. The two of you get supper if I'm still gone, all right?"  
  
Prim nods seriously. She is twelve now. This year would have been her first Reaping. The Hunger Games have been on her mind lately, and for Prim that translates easily to sympathy for Haymitch Abernathy, our only Victor.   
  
I am less sympathetic, but I go along. It's a long trek to the Victor's Village, where Haymitch lives alone in solitary state. Even now, when there is no-one to stop them, nobody goes to the village. It seems... wrong.   
  
Haymitch Abernathy lives in a cesspit. The house is run down on the outside. On the inside, it looks as if he's never cleaned it in the twenty-four years he's had it. It stinks - and when we find him, so does he. He is not only thin, he is almost skeletal. His hands shake uncontrollably, and his skin is a pasty yellowish colour. "Who're you?" he asks, seemingly unable to focus his eyes on us.   
  
My mother's voice is unexpectedly soft. "It's me, Haymitch," she says quietly. "Ruth Everdeen. Maysilee's friend Ruth."  
  
"Oh." He turns away. "Go away. I'm busy."  
  
"Busy doing what, Haymitch? Dying?"   
  
"It takes time and effort," he says, as calmly as she asked the question. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to it."   
  
But as usual, now that she has a patient, my mother is fully alert and focused. Haymitch is too weak to resist her, and soon she has dragged him in and out of a bath (I don't watch that part) and has bribed him to eat a meal of yesterday's stew and goat's milk with a promise of a small measure of white spirits if he eats it all. Apparently the old drunk finally ran out of liquor, and that's what's making him shake so much. After food and a drink, he falls asleep at the table, and I have to help my mother lay him down on a filthy couch. She looks at it, then around at the house. "He can't stay here," she says firmly. "Not alone."   
  
For once I agree with her. Haymitch may be old and smelly and a little embarrassing, but he's ours.  Our Victor. The only person in District Twelve who had any real part in the greater rebellion. We owe him something for that.   
  
It turns out that while plenty of people agree with me in theory, nobody actually wants him. So that's how I, at sixteen, never having seen the inside of an Arena, found myself moving with my family into the Victor's Village.   
  
Not into Haymitch's house, though. That place could only be cleansed with fire. We take the house next to it, which has never been lived in, and drag Haymitch there too. It works out. There are four bedrooms, which means Peeta has a room of his own for the first time in a year. Haymitch insists on sleeping on the ground floor - he says he's not up to stairs - so my mother does the same. Peeta gets the smaller of the upstairs rooms, and Prim and I share the big one, which is almost bigger than our whole house down in the Seam.   
  
My mother, of course, worries that it will be harder for sick people to get to her here. But Prim wins her over by pointing out that in this big house, we can put sick people somewhere besides the floor in front of our meagre fire. Peeta agrees with her, and points out the empty house on the other side from Haymitch's.  
  
I'm out hunting when Prim, Peeta and my mother descend on the mayor to demand the use of another house. Mayor Undersee is apparently very taken with the idea of using one of the empty houses as a hospital of sorts. It has beds, running water, heating - it's perfect. And somehow, co-opting the houses in service to the sick doesn't seem disrespectful to all the dead Tributes who will never live in them.   
  
I like my mother having her own nursing-house, and I definitely like the comfortable bed and hot running water. I'm less taken with sharing a house with Haymitch Abernathy. For the first few weeks, he's as sour as curdled milk and half as pleasant.   
  
Peeta, of course, begins to befriend him almost immediately. I'm fond of Peeta - he's mine, part of my family - but between him and Prim, sometimes I want to strangle myself with my own braid to get away from the relentless optimism. When Prim gets over her shyness and joins the assault, I almost feel sorry for Haymitch.   
  
We've been sharing the house for almost a month when Haymitch wanders into the kitchen. I am alone there, cleaning fish for dinner. My mother and Prim are next-door with a patient. Peeta is probably on his way back from the bakery after his Sunday's work. I'd been hoping for some peace and quiet.  
  
From his recoil, so was Haymitch. Then he looks and me and sighs. "Oh, thank God," he mutters. "It's you."  
  
I feel my eyebrows go up. "Why would you be pleased to see me?" I ask, not bothering to sound friendly. He gets enough of that.   
  
"Because you're not anyone else, sweetheart. Ruthie's bad enough, harping back to old days that, no offense, I was happier not thinking about. But your brother and sister are so goddamn cheerful and adorable that I think I'll rupture something if I have to endure one more minute." He pours himself a large cup of the herbal tea that my mother makes for him. She bribes him into drinking it by adding a little white spirits to the jug - with the other bottles locked up, it's the only way he can get alcohol.   
  
I'm still staring at him, puzzled. "I don't have a brother."   
  
Haymitch turns to face me, frowning. "Sure you do. Ungodly cheerful. Blonde hair. One foot. Please tell me I haven't been hallucinating him all this time."   
  
I feel stupid for not realising what he meant, but the idea is just so wrong that I can hardly make sense of it even after he's explained. "Peeta isn't my brother."  
  
Haymitch frowns, considering this. "Cousin?" he ventures after a minute.   
  
I realize that we never explained it to him. We're so used to everyone knowing... but Haymitch never really talks to anyone. He wouldn't hear the rumours, would he? "No. He's no relation. We... sort of got him last year."  
  
He looks me over, clearly more puzzled than ever. "Well, you sure as hell don't act like _you_ got him," he says, and the crude implication is somehow lessened by how matter-of-factly he says it. "So what happened?"  
  
I tell him as briefly as possible. About Peeta saving Prim. About finding his mother beating him. Haymitch is from the Seam, like me. I don't need to explain why I had to take Peeta home, or why we invited him to stay. He knows that something like saving Prim is the kind of debt you never really pay back. Instead, Haymitch shakes his head and swigs his tea as if it was liquor. He always drinks that way - I wonder if he even notices. "I'm glad I never got him," he says, looking down at the table.   
  
"Got him?" I frown, puzzled.  
  
"In the Games. You know. The Tributes. The Arena. The certain death." Haymitch turns his cup back and forth. "It's always harder with the good ones. The sullen ones, the whiny ones, the ones who won't listen... they'd bring it on themselves, you know? Do something I told them over and over not to do, or not try hard enough, or... something. I could tell myself, well, I tried. But the good kids, the kind ones, the ones who just didn't have it in them to kill another human being... that was the worst. There was nothing anyone could do for them. They wouldn't survive the Arena, even if they happened to live..." He paused and blinked. " _God,_ I'm maudlin when I'm sober. So what's Peeta's name, if it isn't Everdeen?"  
  
"Mellark," I say, glad to get away from the topic of the Games. "His family owns the bakery."   
  
Haymitch actually sets down his cup, blinking. "The _bakery_. Well, fuck, sweetheart, that's just... that's awkward, is what that is. No wonder his mother hates you."   
  
"Whose mother? Mine?" As if we summoned him with his name, Peeta puts his head through the door into the kitchen. "Oh, good, fish." He comes in, setting a couple of loaves of bread on the table. He gets the old bread cheap, or free if his father thinks his mother won't notice, so these days he brings home more than the one loaf that is part of his pay.   
  
"Yes, yours. You're Danny Mellark's boy, right?" Haymitch shakes his head again, then realises that we're both staring at him. "You don't know? Ruthie and Danny Mellark were walking out, when I left for the Games. Everyone figured they'd get married."  
  
I am thunderstruck, but Peeta doesn't seem at all surprised. "I know my father wanted to marry Mrs Everdeen, years ago," he says slowly, leaning his crutches against the table and sitting down. He gets around a lot better now that he uses two - they were a gift from Teff, carefully made to his measure. "He told me once, when I was little."   
  
"You never told me that," I say, a little accusingly. Why would he keep something like that a secret?   
  
He blushes, something he does sometimes for no apparent reason at all. "I don't know. It seemed... awkward. Especially after what she said to him when I moved in."   
  
"She told him he'd always been a coward," I tell Haymitch, less because I want him to know than because I'm burning to know what he'll say about it.  
  
"Sounds about right. Danny was a nice enough guy, but he didn't have enough spine to keep a snail in motion." Haymitch swigs his tea again. "I don't know that I ever met Everdeen... he was a few years older, I think. But he had to have been an improvement on Danny."   
  
Peeta and I share a look that communicates our mutual, slightly insulted confusion perfectly. "My father told me," he says tentatively, "that she married Mr Everdeen because when he sang, the birds stopped to listen."  
  
"She married him because she was in love and people in love do stupid things," I say firmly. "I remember... even after years, they still got stupid around each other, kissing over the table and things like that."   
  
"That doesn't sound stupid," Peeta says softly. "That sounds... nice."   
  
"Everdeen could sing, I do remember that. Heard him once or twice, at Harvest time." Haymitch considers it, as if he's trying to dredge up the memories out of the alcoholic swamp his brain has turned into. "But no, Ruthie wasn't the kind to be swayed by a pretty face or voice. She was pretty herself, back then, like little Prim will be. She must have loved him, to head for the Seam for him." His voice has a bitter edge, but it's not mocking this time. For the first time, I wonder if Haymitch was ever in love. Why he's spent all these years living all alone.  
  
"The Seam isn't so bad." Peeta shrugs when we both stare at him. "It's not. I know why she did it."  
  
"You do?" I wonder if Peeta has a girlfriend. I haven't seen him with anyone, but maybe the girls have gotten over the missing foot now that they see how hard he works. I don't like the idea, though I couldn't say why.   
  
He nods. "I've lived in both," he says simply. "And it's better to live in the Seam with a family who looks out for you than in town with one that treats you badly."   
  
Haymitch nods slowly. "It's better," he says very quietly. "You're right. That's better." Haymitch, who was born in the Seam but now has no family at all.   
  
I feel sorry for him, but I know he wouldn't want me to show it. So I hug Peeta, instead, careful to keep my fish-gut-covered hands clear of his shirt. "Well, now you're in Victor's Village with a family who need supper," I tell him, and his eyes smile at me the way they do when he knows I'm hiding a brief surge of sentiment. "And since I can't cook, and I'm pretty sure Haymitch can't, you're up."   
  
He nods, leaning over to look at my cleaned fish. "Fish stew," he decides after a moment. "The one with the chives and the goat's milk. That will stretch a bit if the patient is up to eating, and it keeps well."   
  
I agree, mostly because that particular fish stew is one of my favourite things in the world, right after the thing Peeta does with toasted bread, goat's cheese and mushrooms that makes my tongue think it's gone to heaven ahead of time.  
  
 After that, Haymitch and I get along better. He's more like me than anyone in my family, and when Prim and Peeta are a little too cheerful we trade sarcastic barbs until we're comfortable again.   
  
But that winter is a hard one. Worse than the one before. There is no single great blizzard, but there are many smaller ones. There is less food, and then less, until even those few of us with money can't buy it because there is nothing to buy.   
  
Just like in every winter I remember except the one just past, people begin to starve. I have to stop my mother from giving food away, even to the children. There is hardly any game. There isn't even any fish. I go out every day, forgoing school, and trudge through the drifts to come home empty-handed four days out of five. This winter is hitting us hard, I realize, because of the year and a half of plenty that preceded it. People got used to having food. Their bodies got used to it, and now struggle to survive on the little they once were accustomed to. More babies were born in the year after the war, because people were happy and optimistic and doing married people things without caution.   
  
Too many of those babies die, this year. Two hard winters in succession often does that, but it hurts my mother every time. And even my own family is running out of food. Peeta couldn't get through the drifts to town on his crutches if he tried, which he doesn't because the bakery is closed, what with all the flour and sugar long gone. He has no income now, and nothing to spend it on if he did. There isn't even the every-other-day bread we have come to count on. Few people can afford to pay my mother for her care, and what little they have to trade isn't food.   
  
The only things between us and starvation are my increasingly fruitless hunting trips, a few bags and cans, and Prim's goats with their rapidly decreasing stores of dried grass and herbs.   
  
We all grow thin. It is a month before even the earliest possibility of spring that I find Haymitch staring into the almost-empty food cupboard with a bitter expression on his face. "It's my fault, you know," he says quietly.  
  
"You don't eat that much." He eats more than we can spare, but we can't abandon him just because public gratitude wore out months ago and he has no way of bringing in food.   
  
"It's not that. I lost my temper when those idiots from Thirteen started fussing about the Peacekeepers and sedition. I told them to do a lot of things I shouldn't repeat in front of a virgin of  your tender years, and then I stormed out. It was after that that they started talking about penalties. I should have been more diplomatic."   
  
Still blushing from the bit about virgins of tender years - I am, but it's none of his business - I shrug. "You could say it's my fault just as easily," I say honestly. "I'm the one who shot the soldier the first time they came."  
  
He blinks at me. "That was you?" He laughs suddenly. "Damn. That was quite a shot. I remember that. Yeah, they want you, sweetheart. Everyone who attacked their boys with weapons... as if they should have expected anything else, marching in here with demands on the tail end of a war."   
  
I nod, pleased that he understands. "They acted as if we were the enemy. As if we didn't fight too."   
  
"Well, the way they see it, you didn't. A couple hundred Peacekeepers, one hovercraft and a few bombs... that's not much, compared to what happened in some of the other districts." His eyes are distant. Haunted. "We got off light, sweetheart. District Twelve was so small and so poor and so unimportant to everyone out there that we were only an afterthought to the Capitol, let alone the rebels. If it wasn't for me, I think they might have forgotten about it altogether."   
  
"Just because we're small and poor doesn't mean we're unimportant." My fists are clenched at that thought. At the idea that we just don't matter to anyone.   
  
"I know. I know that." He lays a strangely gentle hand on my shoulder. "And I know that if we don't do something, we're going to run out of food well before spring. So you get out there to hunt. I'm going to slog down to the Mayor's place and see if I can raise someone in the Capitol. Do some crawling. I can handle that, I don't have any pride."  
  
But when he comes back that afternoon, his face is grim and set. The one brief communication he'd managed had been cut off without any hope of relief. For once we have enough for some kind of meal - I managed to snare a rabbit somehow. We eat, and after dinner Prim and Peeta coax me to sing. I won't unless they sing with me, and together we manage to shut out fear for a little while. Haymitch listens, and afterwards he touches my shoulder again. "The boy's right about family," he says quietly.   
  
The next morning, his bed is empty and the cabinet where my mother was hiding the liquor has been broken open. It's snowing again, and we can't leave the house to look for him until afternoon, by which time we all know it's far too late.  We search anyway, but it's Gale who finds his body in the Meadow the next morning, frozen solid and still holding his bottle. Gale lets us know, helps us carry him home, but he seems surprised that I'm upset. "He'd been drinking himself to death for years, Catnip," he says gently, his nose wrinkling a little as he tries to understand. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."  
  
"It wasn't the drink. He'd almost stopped." My throat is so tight it hurts. "It was so we wouldn't run out of food. He went out and froze to death so the rest of us might have enough."   
  
He nods, but there's a doubtful look on his face that I hate. He doesn't understand. Nobody will understand. Everyone just remembers the stupid old drunk, not the man I traded sarcasm with. Not the man who talked about my mother when she was young, or smiled at Prim, or sacrificed himself for my family.   
  
Gale doesn't understand me the way he used to, and I wonder if he's still my best friend. He's my hunting partner still, and we're close, but to him, family is about blood and bone. He hasn't learned that family is sometimes something you find.   
  
Peeta understands. When I creep away to cry in private in the cellar, a gentle arm draws a blanket around me. The arm isn't nearly as muscular as it was, but it's still comforting. "At least he wasn't alone," he tells me gently.   
  
"He was! He was out in the snow all alone!" Nobody but Peeta and Prim can see me cry. I won't even let my mother see it.   
  
"But he wasn't alone before that." Peeta hugs me gently, tears in his eyes but his voice steady. "He was alone for so long... the Capitol killed his family, you know, because of something he did. After that, he didn't let anyone get close in case they died too. He was all alone for more than twenty years. But the last few months... he wasn't alone any more. He had us. He was happy, I think, or as happy as he could be. He got to be part of a family for a little while. I think that meant a lot to him, Katniss. I think it was the most anyone could have done for him.'   
  
When we're straightening up Haymitch's room, we find a large envelope with my name on it.   
  
When I open it, there's another envelope inside, and a letter.   
  
_"Hey, sweetheart_  
  
 _Don't worry about me. No crying. Your mother and sister are probably sobbing up a storm, so try to hold it together. Tell Peeta not to get weepy._  
  
 _It's been a good few months. Best I've had since my Reaping, and that's the truth. I got to see Twelve tell the Capitol and District Thirteen to kiss their collective asses. I got to be the crazy drunk uncle for a while. It was good._  
  
 _Get the enclosed letter to Chaff, the mentor from Eleven. You've seen him on TV. Don't give it to any of those stuffed shirts from Thirteen, get one of the traders to take it. Whatever of my stuff can be disinfected I leave to you, Peeta and Prim. There's no-one else who needs it. Oh, except my tankard with the naked ladies on it. Promised that to Chaff years ago. Don't figure you kids want that anyway."_  
  
I laugh at that - I know the one he means, and it's awful. Peeta can't even look at it without blushing. But despite what Haymitch told me about holding it together, my eyes are full of tears. This hurts so much, all the more because I can almost feel his relief that it's over. The last paragraph just confirms it.   
  
_"I'm never getting better, Katniss. The nightmares will never go away. I'll never be able to sleep without a knife in my hand. The Games break us all, and I'm glad you'll never have to know that first-hand. Lately I dream about you and Peeta a lot, about you being in the arena, like my other tributes, with nothing I can do to save you. I won't let you down the way I let them down. I can help this time. At least this way I can go out saving lives, not ending them. That's what I want. You know it's true - it's what you'd want too._  
  
 _It's over for me, Katniss. No more nightmares. You don't know what a relief that will be. Now go shoot something, it'll make you feel better._  
  
 _Haymitch"_   
  
I can hardly read the signature for my tears, but I know he's right. I put the letters away carefully and go to get my bow.   
  
But something is born in me that winter. I thought I hated the Capitol. I *did* hate the Capitol. But that was a distant thing. It was like hating winter, or hunger, or some other vast and arbitrary force. I hate the new Council with a bitter, personal passion. They punished us for not letting them march in and take away our people. They cut off our food supplies. They thought our little struggles in the war didn't mean anything.  
  
They _murdered_ Haymitch.   
  
I wrap up the ugly mug and the letter carefully in an old shawl, and put them away. Haymitch's death is reported to the Capitol and the new Council.   
  
But his friend Chaff never comes. And when spring finally arrives, the traders don't either. We are still being punished.  
  
I hate them.


	5. Bitter Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains ableism and some offensive words.

I am seventeen when Harry Moran returns to District Twelve.  
  
It's some sort of publicity thing - like a Victory Tour, I guess, but with a couple of other Victors with him. We don't really expect him to come to Twelve. Twelve is, after all, a hotbed of dissent. There won't be any cheering people waving flags with their well-fed hands here. The cameras won't have anything cheerful to show.  
  
But he does come. It's unexpected, and we have to scramble some people into the square to greet him. Habit comes to our rescue - we know what is expected of us on a Victory Tour, what will keep the Capitol from punishing us any more than it already is. Children gather wildflowers and give them to him. There's a speech. He looks a little puzzled all through it, but I'm not sure why.  
  
When it's over, I take the bundle that I have guarded since Haymitch died and walk over to the end of the stage, the one where the other Victors were sitting. The soldiers in grey don't want to let me close at first, but one of the Victors pushes them away irritably. "Oh, come on. What's the kid going to do, bite me?"  
  
It's Johanna Mason, who drops down over the edge of the stage to stand on the dirt in front of me. Harry's mentor - the male Victor is supposed to mentor the boy, I know that, but maybe there wasn't one that year. Certainly everyone knows it was Johanna who got Harry through the period after the games, coaching him, protecting him - I remember the propo that had the two of them fighting back to back, his huge axe and her two small ones flashing. I've always admired her.  
  
In person she's a little smaller than she looked on TV, only a bit taller than me. She has large eyes and sharp features, with an edge to her smile. I would like her, I realize, if I wasn't so angry at all of them over what happened to Haymitch. But I have to ask. It was what he wanted. "Do you know Chaff? The mentor from Eleven?"  
  
She blinks, looking surprised. "Yeah... we were just there. Why?"  
  
I shove the bundle at her. "Can you give this to him?"  
  
She takes it, but warily, looking carefully at the bundle of cloth before she touches it. "Why? What is it?"  
  
I shrug. "Something Haymitch promised him. And a letter. He wanted Chaff to have them, that's all I know."  
  
"Oh. Okay." She takes the bundle, then looks around, frowning. "Where is the old drunk, anyway?"  
  
I know it's insane - she's a Victor, a killer - but I can't stand hearing anyone call him that. Before it even registers in my mind that she's asking for him, that she doesn't know, my hand flashes out to slap her face. It actually connects, which surprises me later - but she was looking for Haymitch, not at me.  
  
A split second later I'm pinned against the edge of the stage, a knife to my throat. "What the _hell_ was that?" Johanna snaps, and I think I'm only still alive because she's so surprised.  
  
"Don't call him that," I choke out over the arm pressed against my chest, making it a little hard to breathe.  
  
She looks more confused than ever, but she relaxes a little, drawing the knife back an inch or two. "We all call him that. He doesn't mind. Where is he? Is he sick or something?"  
  
I hate her for not knowing and I push her away, kneeling to pick up the bundle she dropped and rewrap it carefully. My hands are shaking. "He died nearly six months ago," I tell her in a cold voice I hardly recognise as my own. "So treat his last request with a little more respect, will you?"  
  
When I look up at her she looks dazed, as if I'd hit her again. After a second she shakes her head and stares at me. "He _died_?" When I nod, she turns to yell sharply. "Finnick! Cecelia! Harry! Get down here *now*!"  
  
By the time i stand up with the bundle in my hands, there are more Victors standing around me. I don't remember the motherly looking woman who must be Cecelia, but even the littlest kids, who barely remember the Games, know Finnick Odair and Harry Moran. Finnick, who everyone thought was a heartless playboy and who married Annie Cresta the minute they were safe from Snow. Harry, the Avalanche, who supposedly saved us all.  
  
It's Harry who asks, turning to Joanna with a look of gentle inquiry that reminds me of Peeta somehow. "What's up, Jo?"  
  
"Her. She says Haymitch is dead. That he died six months ago." Johanna's voice is tight, and I recognise that angry sound with some surprise. That's how I sound, when something hurts and I don't want it to show. It sounds strange coming from someone else. Did she care a little about the 'old drunk' who didn't mind her calling him that?  
  
Not enough, obviously. Not enough to check on him. But a little.  
  
They all seem shocked, and Cecelia turns to me. "How did he die?" she asks sadly. She's older, at least thirty - maybe she knew him for a while.  
  
I take a step away from them, and my hands twitch. I want my bow. I want to shoot them for not knowing. For not caring enough to know. "He walked out into a winter storm so there'd be food left for the rest of us," I say, my voice harsh and loud. "He killed himself so my family wouldn't starve. What did you think would happen when his stipend stopped? Where did you think he'd get food?"  
  
Harry gets a stricken look like Peeta's, too. For all his size, he's a gentle person. Not like me. "He starved? But... but what about the food allowances?"  
  
"Those stopped after a year. Last winter we had less than we ever have." And it's true. All of spring's optimism didn't take one thing into account - no tesserae. The poorest families had no way to mortgage their children's future for grain and oil, and those children starved. Starvation isn't a nice way to go. For the first time, we realize what a dreadful blessing the Games were. In exchange for a quick death in the Arena - it was usually quick, for the tributes from Twelve - whole families were kept from starving.  
  
Finnick moves closer to, looking at me strangely. "Who are you?" he asks. "Why was your family what Haymitch killed himself to protect?"  
  
"They were living with him. Taking care of him." It's Mayor Undersee, looking down from the edge of the stage. Like everyone else, he's still thin even in summer. Nobody is willing to risk counting on food from the Capitol any more, everyone's storing every scrap they can. When his eyes pass over the Victors standing below him I see an edge of anger in him too. "My wife and Katniss's mother... they were the last people who really cared what happened to Haymitch. Do any of you know about Maysilee?"  
  
To my surprise, they all nod. I wouldn't have expected them to know about a tribute from so long ago, they're too young. "She was Haymitch's ally in his games," Cecelia says softly. "She died."  
  
"Maysilee was my wife's sister. Ruth Everdeen's best friend. When I realised Haymitch was starving last summer, my wife asked Ruth to go see to him. She's a herbalist, all we have besides the apothecary. She and her children moved into the Village after that, to take care of him. He needed it." He shrugs. "They kept him alive for seven months he wouldn't have had otherwise."  
  
"And you just let him starve?" Finnick sounds angry. "You let one family try to keep him alive while everyone else - "  
  
Harry stops him, laying a big hand on Finnick's shoulder. He's looking around at the people still gathered, and he looks stricken. "Finnick," he says quietly. "Look at these people. Really look."  
  
I see understanding dawn in Finnick's eyes as he looks around, and I hate him for needing to have it pointed out. In every other district, things are still as good as they were in that first year. People look healthy. They have decent clothes. Here, the crowd is as thin and grey and beaten down as they were at every Reaping I know these people have seen. And they don't cheer. They stare, silently, at the symbols of our new oppression.  
  
"What happened here?" Finnick asks, his voice very quiet.  
  
Mayor Undersee sighs. "Come with me," he says quietly. "I see we have a lot to tell you." He looks at me, then looks around for Peeta, who is sitting on a ledge on the other side of the square. He knew I was coming to hand over Haymitch's legacy, and insisted on coming with me. "Katniss, you and Peeta were with Haymitch to the end. You come too."  
  
I haven't been inside the Justice Building since my father died. It's unsettling now, but I cling to my anger over Haymitch's death and Peeta's reassuring presence beside me. The tap and drag of his crutches is always soothing, a reminder of his presence.  
  
The crutches seem to startle the Victors, too. Cecelia, with motherly concern, asks him how it happened as we all sit down in a room clearly meant for meetings of some kind. Peeta shrugs, leaning his crutches against the table and swinging himself into his seat with the ease of long practice. "The bombing, just before the war ended," he says, smiling at her in his friendly way. "I was lucky. A lot of kids died when they bombed the school, but I was already outside."  
  
"Why don't you have a prosthetic?" Cecelia asks. "Did they have trouble fitting one?"  
  
We stare at her, puzzled. "What's a prosthetic?" I ask her after a minute.  
  
Peeta nudges me. "It's a wooden leg," he explains. "Or the plastic ones they have in the Capitol. Nobody in Twelve makes them," he adds, shrugging. "I thought about trying to make one, but I get around all right on the crutches."  
  
They are all staring again. "Why didn't your doctor request one?" is the next question, and we try to understand why they think we would even have one.  
  
We are supposed to have one.  
  
There are supposed to be doctors here. Doctors from the Capitol were sent out to all the districts, or so the Victors thought. There should be food bonuses - not as large as the first year, but nobody should be starving. They demand to see the head of the local police force and we tell them that we don't have that, either. I ask them if they mean our Peacekeepers, and the room goes very quiet.  
  
"What Peacekeepers?" Harry asks quietly.  
  
He reminds me of Peeta, so it's easy to talk to him, especially after Peeta takes my hand under the table. I tell him about the new Peacekeepers the Capitol sent years ago, that that was how we found out about the rebellion. About Fine trying to execute people and Darius shooting him. About the twelve - ten now - surviving Peacekeepers who sided with us, who have families and homes here in Twelve. About soldiers coming to take them away, and our refusal. "Nobody is taking any of our people away to the Capitol," I finish, looking up to meet his eyes. "Not ever again. Not _ever_. No matter what the Capitol does to us."  
  
They didn't know. They didn't know any of it. They had been told that there was 'some dissent' in Twelve. It was suggested that they skip Twelve on their tour, but Harry insisted on going, on trying to smooth things over.  
  
They didn't know why they hadn't heard from Haymitch, but they were used to only ever hearing from him in summer. When a second summer came without word, and they couldn't reach him on the phone in his house, they came looking.  
  
I am still holding the bundle in my lap, I realize. When I hold it out to Johanna again, she takes it as carefully as befits a last legacy. Then she turns it over in her hands, feeling the shape of it, and laughs a bitter little laugh. "It's the tankard, isn't it?" she asks, her voice tight with hidden tears. "That awful thing with the naked women."  
  
I nod. "He said he wanted Chaff to have it."  
  
That's when Cecelia starts to cry.  
  
They say they want to stay for a day or two. Their guards protest, but the Victors have authority now. I escort them to the Victor's Village, and they elect to stay in Haymitch's house. We spent weeks cleaning it out, so it's sort of fit for human habitation now, but I don't like them being there. I don't like them acting as if they cared, when they were off eating and having fun while he starved.  
  
Haymitch was _mine_. Like Prim is mine. Like Peeta is mine. Like my mother and Buttercup and the goats. I took care of him. I fed him. He was mine.  
  
My mother invites them over for dinner, even though we can't really spare the food. To my relief, Cecelia politely insists that we come to them instead. That it's the least they can do after all we did for Haymitch It's true, so I don't mind eating their food.  
  
The food is good. Peeta gets into a long conversation with Finnick about the strange green bread that is from District Four. My mother and Cecelia talk about their children, how fast we grow and what a relief it is for a mother that the Games are over.  
  
When dessert comes, I can't stand it any more. "We were better off before. We were better off with the Games," I say, loud and bitter and not caring if I upset people.  
  
They all stare at me, as horrified as if I'd uttered some terrible blasphemy. Well, I suppose I did. I glare defiantly. "We were! At least when the Hunger Games were around, we still had tesserae. At least the Capitol cared enough to keep us alive until we turned eighteen or got reaped! Over a *hundred* people starved this winter, and most of them were children! Babies died every _week_. It was never this bad before!"  
  
It is Johanna who nods slowly. "Will you come to the Capitol, and tell them that?" she says, startling me. "Harry and I can get you in front of the Council. In front of cameras. Then you can tell them - "  
  
"No!" My mother catches hold of my arm, clinging desperately. "Please, don't take her away!"  
  
She is afraid that if I go, I won't come back. I am, too. I *want* to go, I want to throw my hatred and disgust in their faces at least once, but who will take care of my family when I'm arrested or executed?  
  
Cecelia touches my mother's hand, but it is Harry who gets up from the table, going around it to kneel beside my mother's chair. "Did you watch my Games?" he asks quietly. She nods, and he holds her hand gently between both of his, the one that isn't gripping my arm. "Then I promise you, that Katniss and whoever else goes to the Capitol to report this obscenity will be protected, the way I couldn't protect Tina and Dell. I'm stronger now. I have allies now. I will protect them to my last breath. I _promise_."  
  
Slowly, her grip on my arm slackens. We all saw Harry in the Arena, protecting those two little kids. We all know what losing them meant to him. Even I, as suspicious as I am, don't think he would invoke their names unless he meant it. "And they'll come back?" she asks pleadingly.  
  
"They'll come back," he promises.  
  
Two days later the train leaves for the Capitol. I am on it - and so is Peeta. Peeta, usually so gentle and cooperative, turned into a one-legged stone block when I said I was going. If I was going, he said, he was going. I'm glad he's with me, though I don't admit it. I wish he was with Prim and my mother - he takes good care of them - but it's so comforting to have him there.  
  
We are not the only ones. All ten of the Peacekeepers said they would go. If they have to, they said, they will stay. Corwin and Emily's baby died in the winter. So did one of Theoph's stepkids, frozen along with her husband in a shack in the Seam when their fuel ran out. They say they are not willing to sacrifice any more lives to stay out of Capitol hands, and nobody can argue. But everyone comes to see them off.  
  
To my surprise, Gale, Greasy Sae and a tall, spare man with a spear turn up at the station too. When Johanna asks, exasperated, what they think they're doing, they say they're the dissidents.  
  
Johanna stares at them. "You're the what?"  
  
"The notices from the Capitol." Gale shrugs. "They said they wanted the people who defended the Peacekeepers with weapons, too. That's us. Well, us and Catnip there," he adds, grinning up at me.  
  
Johanna glances at me, then back at the three 'dissidents'. "What did you use?" she asks Sae, amusement lacing her annoyance now. "A broom?"  
  
Sae holds up her ladle and grins.  
  
Johanna snorts. "You're kidding."  
  
The tall man laughs. "Sae's soup kettle is a byword in the Hob - our black market, or it was. Everyone knows that if you try to steal from her she'll break your fingers with that ladle."  
  
Finnick laughs too. "They need to come. Let Coin see these dangerous dissidents for herself." He offers Sae a hand up into the train, as courtly as if she was a fancy lady. "My mentor is over eighty years old," he tells her when she gives him a suspicious look, "and I'm pretty sure she could still break my fingers too. I'd like you to meet her."  
  
I am told that the fastest trains could run from Twelve to the Capitol in little more than a day, but that was before. Now, with no need to waste power and three times as many trains on the lines, the journey takes four days.  
  
They're four uncomfortable days, for me. I'm nervous about talking in front of cameras. I'm even more nervous about Finnick's suggestion that President Coin should see us herself. Does that mean seeing _her_? In person?  
  
The Capitol aside, the train is big enough to house thirty or forty people but apparently much, much too small for Gale and Peeta to share. I don't understand what's going on with them at all. They don't argue, but every time they look at each other they seem to bristle. Gale keeps trying to draw me away from the others to talk, and when he sees me hug Peeta on the second night he walks out in what looks awfully like a sulk.  
  
"I don't know what's wrong with them," I complain to Sae, as i help her into her bunk that second night. She's mobile enough, but the bunk is low down and bending and twisting that far is hard for her now. "Peeta's never like this, and Gale's never been this bad."  
  
Sae snorts. "They're fighting over you," she says dryly. "They've been jealous of each other for years. Didn't you notice?"  
  
I stare at her, bewildered. "Notice what?"  
  
She snorts, whacking me in the stomach with the back of her hand. "You won't be raising your sister forever," she tells me, and pokes my belly again. "Sooner or later, you'll be thinking of babies of your own - and either of those boys would be more than happy to provide 'em." She pauses. "Well, not just that," she adds, clearly intending to be just. "They want to marry you first. It's love on their minds, not just getting under your skirt."  
  
I shudder at the thought of babies, then shake my head. "But neither of them ever said anything about that to me," I protest. "Surely if you like someone, you're supposed to at least tell her."  
  
Sae laughs. "Girl, the whole district knows Gale's had his eye on you since you were fourteen. Peeta's something less obvious, but he looks at you like you hung the moon, whenever you're not looking at him." She pulls her blanket up over herself, chuckling. "Some hunter. Can't see what's right in front of her nose."  
  
I lie awake for a long time that night, and I wake up early. Exhaustion does nothing for my temper, already worn thin by worrying.  
  
I don't want Gale or Peeta to think of me that way. Gale is one of my best friends, my partner in hunting. Peeta is my friend, my family, my partner in caring for our family. I don't want that to change. Just thinking about it makes me want to run. I don't want to get married. I don't want to fall in love, or...  
  
I stare up at the ceiling, and for some reason I think of Haymitch. This is one of the tribute trains. He rode on this train or one like it every year. He took them to the Capitol. He watched them die. And then he came home on this train, or one like it, and went back to his liquor and his filthy house and his solitude.  
  
For years I have been telling myself I don't want to marry because I don't want children. Lying on that narrow bunk, looking at the ceiling, I realize for the first time that what I don't want is anyone else depending on me. It was so hard to take care of Prim and my mother. It was so _hard_. I don't want that ever again, I don't want to see a child dying of hunger because I can't feed her, I don't want the devastating grief of losing a husband I love, I _don't want to_.  
  
And it's because I'm afraid.  
  
Haymitch was afraid. He was so afraid of losing anyone else he loved that he just stopped letting himself love anyone, even care a little about them. And he was so alone that it was only the fragile thread of an old debt that kept him from dying in the midst of summer's plenty.  
  
The thought of that utter solitude is more terrifying than any loss could be. Having nothing, _nothing_ , for a lifetime... to be taken in out of charity for my last few months, tended by a family not my own, so my last days are filled with a sad mockery of family and peace...  
  
I am shaking and sweating as if I've been having my old nightmare about the mine. I force myself to get up, to dress, to slip out of the dormitory-car where my friends sleep without waking anyone.  
  
There is a sort of little alcove off what was the bar car, a tiny railed-off nook that can be used for getting on and off the train, that I suspect gave Haymitch a place to get a breath of fresh air and puke over the side of the train onto the grass and gravel whipping past. I lurch out there seeking air that isn't canned and purified, some taste of wildness to remind me who I am.  
  
I am clutching the rail in a white-knuckled grip when I hear a voice behind me. "If you need to throw up," Finnick says calmly, "you're better off inside. If you do it here it'll just hit the windows in the next car."  
  
I am startled into a shaky laugh as I turn to face him. "I was just thinking," I say quietly, turning to face him, "that Haymitch probably used it for that. And I don't think he would have cared about the windows."  
  
Finnick smiles, and he's as flawlessly handsome as ever even with dark circles under his eyes. "When he used this train, this area was blocked off with shutters. It wasn't safe to go out at the speeds the train travelled then. But yes, that's exactly what he would have done." He comes to stand beside me, the wind fluttering his short curls. "Nightmares?"  
  
"Not exactly." I glance at him, and perhaps for the first time it really strikes me that he was a Victor too. "Do you get them? The nightmares? I know Haymitch did."  
  
"We all do, except maybe the most psychotic Careers." He smiles at me a little sadly. "Did Haymitch tell you about them?"  
  
"I lived in the same house. He didn't need to." The screams in the night had come less often, once his need for alcohol had lessened, but they never stopped. "He told me... he left a note. One for me, not the one for Chaff." I have not mentioned this before. It was too personal, that letter from a man I'd understood better than I wanted to and cared about more than I meant to. "He told me... he told me that it was over for him. No more nightmares. That... that it would be a relief."  
  
Finnick looks less handsome but more human as grief digs deep lines at the corners of his mouth, and his lips tremble a little. "It must have been. I'm... I'm glad you were there, Katniss. That he had someone he could tell that to."  
  
I nod. "Peeta told me afterwards that he wasn't alone," I say, glad I have words of comfort to offer better than my own weak efforts. "The last few months. That he wasn't alone, that he was almost happy.... Peeta thought that was the most anyone could have done for him."  
  
Finnick nods jerkily. "It was. We owe you, we all owe you, a great debt," he says quietly. "We didn't take care of him, but you did, even though you didn't owe him anything. You didn't even know him at first."  
  
"He was ours." I am on steadier ground here, and if I look out at the scenery flashing past then I can blame my wet eyes on the wind. "District Twelve's, I mean. He was a sour, grouchy old drunk, but he was our sour, grouchy old drunk. It was our job to take care of him." I blink hard. "I miss him," I add quietly. "It's... he was family. We didn't just pretend. He said he was happy about that, in the letter. That he got to see District Twelve tell both the Capitol and District Thirteen to kiss our collective asses. That he got to be the crazy drunk uncle for a while."  
  
It _was_ real, I tell my fears of ten minutes ago. Haymitch might not have been born into my family, but we made him part of it. It wasn't a sad mockery. It was real, and he knew it was real. I am very glad that he knew it was real.  
  
I pretend not to hear Finnick's muffled sob, or see him wipe his eyes. It seems only polite.  
  
"Then thank you," he whispers, his voice cracking even in a whisper. "You gave him something we couldn't have." He wipes his eyes again and draws a shaky breath, pulling himself together. "So. You said before that it wasn't exactly a nightmare. Worried about what's coming?"  
  
I look up at him, at the man who pretended to love a thousand Capitol women - and men - while his heart belonged to a fragile, broken girl with sad eyes and trembling hands. If anyone knows the difference between real love and a mistake, it must be him. "What is it like, being in love?" I ask him, before I can lose my nerve. "How do you know that it's... real, I guess?"  
  
He tenses, his expression strange. "Why are you asking me that?"  
  
I shrug, looking out at the grass again. "I've seen you on the broadcasts, with Annie," I explain awkwardly. "You look at her the way my father used to look at my mother. You did so much for her. I figured you'd know."  
  
He relaxes with a sudden sigh. "I forget," he says, smiling a bright, somehow sad smile, "what it's like to be seventeen. You seem so much older, most of the time. This is about Peeta and Gale, is it?"  
  
I feel my face burn. "Did _everyone_ know but me?" I complain, before I can stop myself.  
  
He laughs at that, but it's not a mean laugh. "Oh, God. Now I know what Harry meant about you being like Johanna." I look at him, puzzled, and he grins wryly. "Harry's been in love with her since before his Games. Seeder and I had to practically hold her down and beat her over the head with it before she noticed."  
  
I blink. "They're together? They don't act like it."  
  
"They're not. That was only about a month ago. Now that she finally knows how he feels, he's waiting to see what she's going to do about it."  
  
This is new information for me, and I frown, thinking it over. "You mean she didn't have to tell him right away?"  
  
That makes him laugh again, a warm chuckle that makes me see why people always say he's so charming. "Anyone trying to force a quick commitment out of Johanna would wind up with an axe in his skull. No, Harry knew what he was getting into. If she is willing to take a chance on him, it'll be in her own time."  
  
I try to imagine any boy I've ever met just waiting patiently while a girl decided whether or not she liked him back, and know why Harry reminds me so much of Peeta. "Huh."  
  
Finnick lays his hand over mine on the rail for a moment, eyes gazing into mine. "Katniss," he says gently, "someone who loves you won't rush you. Harry is willing to wait for Johanna to make up her mind, and God knows Annie and I had to wait for each other. You're only seventeen. Peeta is, too, and Gale isn't much older as far as I can tell. You don't need to decide what you want right now. You don't even have to _k_ _now_ what you want right now, with everything else you have to deal with.  You have plenty of time." He smiles down at me. "And if one of those young bantams tries to push the issue, smack him with whatever blunt instrument comes to hand and tell him you'll decide what you want to do with your life when you're good and ready and not one second before."  
  
It's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Everyone seems to think they know what I want, or what I should want, even Greasy Sae. Having someone tell me I can take as long as I want, that I'm not somehow required to even know what it is I want yet, makes my eyes fill up suddenly. "Thanks, Finnick."  
  
"You're welcome." He squeezes my hand gently before releasing it. "You've been through a lot, Katniss, more than most people can handle, and you kept your family going through all of it. I admire that, I really do."  
  
I nod shakily, and then realise I have a question. "Finnick? What's a bantam?"  
  
He grins. "It's a kind of chicken. Very small, with puffy feathers. The roosters tend to think they're a lot bigger than they are."  
  
That picture, of Peeta and Gale fluffing up feathers and crowing at each other, makes me laugh. "Blunt instrument. Got it."  
  
I am glad I have that conversation with Finnick before breakfast. Otherwise I might actually have murdered one of them.  
  
And by one of them, I mean Gale.  
  
I am angry with Peeta for keeping this a secret from me, but it's easier to understand why. I brought him into my family. We are all he has. If *I* am afraid of the damage any change between us might wreak, how much more afraid must he be?  
  
Now that I know what's going on, it's easier to see. Gale bristles and glares every time Peeta touches me, every time we have one of the silent exchanges natural to those who have lived together for years. When Peeta hands me the marmalade as soon as I reach towards the collection of jars, I can almost see Gale's non-existent hackles rise. Which is ridiculous. If I did think of Peeta as a brother (and that, at least, I'm sure I don't) would it somehow be all right for him to know that I love sweets with a bite to them, that orange marmalade sends me giddy with happiness?  
  
Peeta is doing his share of bristling, but it's much more subtle. When Gale pushes in between us as we sit down to breakfast, he is annoyed. When Gale is a little too obvious about handing me appetising dishes, Peeta glares at his plate.  
  
I am seriously contemplating breaking my plate over Gale's head when Cecelia - who looks amused, as do pretty much all the adults at the table - leans forward to get my attention. "Finnick told us what you did for Haymitch," she says gently. "Thank you. He was... he was always so afraid to get close to anyone, because of what Snow did to his family. I know he probably wasn't exactly grateful, but you gave him something he'd been denied for too long."  
  
It makes it easier, that they know he wasn't grateful. That they knew him and how sour he was even when he was happy. "You should have seen his face the first time my mother threw him into a bath. If she hadn't had a bottle of liquor with her I think he would have bitten her."  
  
That makes the other Victors laugh. "Oh, he did that on purpose," Finnick says easily. "The whole... unshaven, unbathed thing. They could drag him to the Capitol, they could make him dress nice, but they could *not* force him to shave. It was his rebellion... and then I suppose it became a habit."  
  
"It did." That is Peeta, his face softening from its annoyed frown as he remembers Haymitch. "He would never shave himself. His excuse was that his hands shook too much and he'd cut himself - so I did it for him. He complained for days about his face being cold, until Prim tied a scarf around his head as if he was an old lady."  
  
I laugh with him, remembering that. "Prim and Peeta between them used to make him crazy, some days," I say fondly, remembering that. "I'd find him hiding in the goat-shed or something and he'd bitch about how if he heard one more piece of sugary optimism his pancreas would explode. Then I'd criticise his filthy personal habits until he felt better."  
  
Peeta puts on a funny, pained look. "Sugary optimism? Really?"  
  
I forget the head-butting he's been doing with Gale and smile at him. "He was like me. A sour old pessimist. But you know we like the optimism, even if we complain."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Peeta smiles back at me.  
  
Perhaps it's our moment of accord that aggravates Gale, the understanding that he doesn't share. Gale knows me so well in some ways, but the things he knows are different from the things Peeta knows, sharing my home and seeing me every day, in every mood.  
  
Perhaps he knows that he's already out of the running when he decides to burn his bridges, scowling and reaching for the toast. "You and your lame ducks, Catnip." His tone is deprecating, as if 'lame ducks' are an amusing foible of mine. "Prim's sick goat, Haymitch, Peeta... you never could walk away."  
  
I am looking at Peeta when he says that. I see him flinch, I see how much it hurts him.  
  
And just for a moment, I could happily murder Gale.  
  
He has never understood, I realise as my eyes turn from Peeta's face to Gale's. I've told him that Peeta is part of my family, that he is my partner in taking care of them. But to Gale, his missing foot  makes him nothing more than a lame duck. A cripple. A burden. Someone I feel sorry for.  
  
He cannot understand that I don't care. That I have never cared. I don't need Peeta to be able to hunt, or fish, or run.  _I_ _can do those things_.  
  
I can't coax my mother out of her unhappy moods. I can't comfort Prim when some little thing wounds her that I don't understand. I can't break myself out of my dark moods. I can't make stale bread and cheese seem like a meal with a smile and a few dried herbs. I can't create beauty out of scraps of charcoal and paper, bring birds and flowers into the darkest winter day. I can't hold my family together by myself.  
  
And Gale made Peeta think I only feel sorry for him.  
  
I rise so fast that my chair falls over. Gale turns to face me, his mouth opening, and I slap him as hard as I can. I am strong for my size, and I am furiously angry, and big strong Gale goes sprawling on the floor clutching at his cheek. "Katniss, what - "  
  
"Don't you _ever_ say that again," I snarl, so full of rage that I feel as if I will burst into flames. "Not about either of them. Not _ever_. And if you keep trying to make trouble just when we need to be united more than ever before I swear to God I will borrow one of Johanna's axes and I will do to you what they do to dogs to keep them from fighting!"  
  
"Just say the word," Johanna says, and I could swear she sounds approving. "I'll even show you how it's done." Her eyes glint dangerously over her smile, and I have no doubt at all that she would do it.  
  
Gale has the grace to look ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry," he mutters, looking at the floor. "I shouldn't have said that... and you're right about being united. That should be our priority now."  
  
"Yes, it should." When he glances up at me, I keep my face cold. "And I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."  
  
But when he turns, Peeta's chair is empty. I don't even know when he left.  
  
I find him in the kitchen car, examining the huge collection of herbs and spices. I know he knows that I'm there, but he doesn't look around. The cook smiles sympathetically at me and leaves to give us privacy.  
  
"I don't know when you left," I say uncertainly. "Did you miss the part where I threatened to castrate Gale and Johanna offered to help?"  
  
He lets out a startled laugh at that, though he doesn't look around. "No, I missed that. You were still glaring at him as if you wanted to set his head on fire when I left."  
  
"Oh. You missed me slapping him, too. That's a shame. I knocked him onto the floor." I look down at my hand. "I don't know what it is about all this that make me want to do that," I say, letting myself ramble. "I think I've done it maybe twice in my whole life until now, and in the last three days I've done Johanna and Gale."  
  
He sighs. "You're still upset over Haymitch. Over not being able to save him."  
  
I don't know if there's more meaning to that than it sounds like. Does he mean I tried to save him too? "Gale's wrong," I tell him, in case he does. "About the lame duck thing. Well, maybe the goat, but Prim's the one who makes a fuss over sick animals, you know that."  
  
"He's not wrong. You can never walk past someone who needs protecting. Who needs your help." Peeta's voice is bitter. I've never heard it that way before. "Me, Haymitch, shooting at the soldiers who came for our Peacekeepers, letting your mother give food to the kids... you can't stand seeing people hurt."  
  
"That wasn't why," I tell him, but even as I say it I can tell how unconvincing it sounds. "Not with you."  
  
"Yes it was. You told me it was, remember? That I couldn't hit my mother but you could." He turns a jar over in his hands, and still he won't look at me. "You thought you owed me."  
  
"I did. I always will." But that isn't the right thing to say, I can see it in the way his shoulder's tense. "But that's not why I wanted you to live with us."  
  
"Then why did you?" He finally turns to face me, and he looks so hurt and miserable that it makes my stomach knot. I can't bear to see Peeta or Prim unhappy. "Why did you want me? I know it was your idea."  
  
"I needed you." Peeta often teases me about being a bad liar, and I know that if I lie to him now he will never believe me again. "Because of Prim."  
  
He frowns, looking puzzled. "I don't understand."  
  
"You were the only other person I trusted," I admit, looking down at my hands. "You'd already done so much for her. I trusted you to take care of her. Not just to feed her, but... even the first day, you talked to her, you made her smile." I swallow hard. "I didn't know until afterwards. I'm not good at... at feelings. You know that."  
  
"I know that." He has teased me about that too, smiling at me and going right to the soft, sentimental underside of why I've done something that seemed entirely practical to me.  
  
"But I was so relieved, when you agreed to stay. I can't count on my mother, you know how she is. And Prim was so little then, and I would have done anything for her, but... but having someone else, someone I could trust, it was such a relief."  
  
"You trusted me," he says slowly, and I can't tell what he thinks of this. It isn't what Gale said it was, but it isn't what he seems to want, either. "That's... I know that's a big deal for you, Katniss. Sometimes I think that Prim and I are the only ones you do trust."  
  
I blink at him. "You are. Well. You and Gale." Bringing up his name is probably a mistake, but not as bad as lying to Peeta now would be. "But that's different. He has his own family to take care of. I know they come first, like mine does for me. You and Prim are *mine*."  
  
"Yours how?" he asks, and even I know what he's asking this time.  
  
I put off answering anyway. "Is Sae right?" I ask him. "That you and Gale, that you both..." I trail off, flushing. It seems presumptuous to talk about love when they haven't said anything. "That you like me?"  
  
I see just a trace of that smile, the one he gets when I'm particularly dense about some people thing. "You really didn't notice, did you? Yes. Gale and I both love you."  
  
"Oh." I feel as if I'm back in my bedroom, with him telling me he burned the bread for me. Just as confused by certainty as I was then. "You both know I don't... I don't want to get married. Or have children. I know I told you."  
  
"I think he hopes you'll change your mind." Peeta shifts his weight, looking down at his foot, flanked by crutches. "I guess I did, too," he says softly. "Even though I knew it was stupid."  
  
"It wasn't. Not because of that." I am so determined to make him understand that I do something I have never done before. I sit down in front of him, cross-legged, the way my mother does when the scar gets inflamed and needs attention, and put my hand on the stump of his leg just below the knee. "It's not this, Peeta."  
  
He is tense, as immobile as a statue, staring down at me with wide eyes. "I..." he begins, then stops as if he can't think of anything else to say.  
  
"I don't need you to do what I do," I tell him slowly. "I can hunt, and forage, and fish. I don't need you to do those things. This... doesn't matter. It doesn't stop you from taking care of us. Holding us together. Doing the things I can't do."  
  
He smiles a small, tentative smile. "Cooking? Talking about feelings?"  
  
I return the smile, glad that he understands. "Stuff like that."  
  
He nods, looking down at my hand where it rests on his leg. "But you don't feel the way I do," he says softly.  
  
"No." I cannot lie to him, no matter how much his sad eyes make my heart ache. "I talked to Finnick - "  
  
" _Finnick_?" Peeta yelps.  
  
"He's married," I say defensively. "He's obviously in love with her. I thought he'd know about... about love and stuff." He shakes his head as if I've done something foolish, but he doesn't say anything. "Anyway. He said that... that it's okay that I don't know what I want, or how I feel about... about all that. That I'm only seventeen, and I've had to do so much..."  
  
Peeta nods slowly, and some of the hurt in his eyes fades. "You've never even thought about it, have you? About... about loving anyone."  
  
I shrug. "I thought about it a couple of times," I admit. "I mean... my mother talked to me about babies and how that happens. And sometimes people tell me I'll want to get married one day. But I never wanted to, so I didn't think about it much."  
  
He holds out his hand to me, and I let him tug me to my feet. We're eye to eye, the same height, and he touches my cheek with a gentle hand. It's different from his other touches, and it sends an odd shiver down my spine. "Katniss... just tell me," he says gently. "I know you don't love me the way I love you. But are you sure you never will, or... not?"  
  
Is this what Finnick meant by putting pressure on me? I don't think so. I can understand wanting to know whether or not to hope. I prefer to hear no right away than to get my hopes up. "I don't know," I admit quietly. "I've only had a few hours to get used to the idea. I always just..." I shrug helplessly. "I was always so busy keeping us alive, concentrating on right now, that I didn't think about what we'd do later."  
  
He smiles a bit ruefully. "I did know that," he admitted. "And I knew you didn't want to get married, or... or be with anyone." He draws his hand away from my face. "Thank you for telling me that my foot doesn't matter to you. That... that meant a lot to me."  
  
"Well, it doesn't." It's strange. The feel of his hand on my cheek was uncomfortable, but I miss it when it's gone. "And not wanting to get married doesn't have anything to do with you either. If I _did_ want to, you'd probably be the one I wanted. I mean, you're part of my family already, and you know me so well, and..." I don't know how to put it into words. That we are partners. That if I wanted to raise a child with someone, live with him forever, it would be Peeta who I already know would be perfect at both.  
  
He hesitates, his face suddenly rather red. "Is it.. uh... is it because you'd rather not... be with a guy?"  
  
I stare at him, bewildered. "Isn't that what I just said?"  
  
"No, I mean... if you'd rather be..." His face is fiery red, but he pushes on. "I mean, I don't know anyone who, who does that, but I've heard that sometimes people prefer to, uh, be with someone who's the... the same as they are."  
  
I wait, but that seems to be all I'm going to get. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
He gives me a searching look and then smiles crookedly. "You don't, do you? Oh, well. It doesn't matter."  
  
This conversation is difficult enough without chasing that subject. "Peeta, you're part of my family. You matter more to me than anyone but Prim. I don't... I don't know if I'd ever love you the way you want me to. But I do care. Isn't... couldn't that be enough?"  
  
"Of course it could." He hugs me then, and it's just like it always is, warm and comforting. I rest my chin on his shoulder, holding on tightly, and finally relax. At least I won't lose him. "I love you," he says quietly, his breath ruffling my hair a little. "I'll always love you. And if it's only as family, and as your friend, that's okay. I never want to lose that."  
  
"Neither do I." I hug him back tightly, painfully relieved. "Thanks, Peeta."  
  
"Any time." He rubs my back a little with one hand. "Threatened to castrate him, huh?"  
  
I giggle, remembering the look on Gale's face. "I was really mad."  
  
Gale is smart enough to avoid me for the rest of the day, giving my temper time to cool. When he tries again to apologise, I accept it but tell him that if he wants to stay my friend, he can never talk or think that way about my family again.  
  
That seems to cheer him up a little, I don't know why.  
  
The next day, we reach the Capitol.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes regarding the potentially triggery bits of characterization:
> 
> 1\. I swear Gale's casual ableism isn't intended as character-bashing. One of Gale's canon flaws is a lack of empathy - it's something he and Katniss have in common. Neither of them is very good at figuring out how other people feel, and why. Add to that the facts that Gale is from a subsistence-level society in which the ability to work is equated with being whole and strong, and that he is a young man with no personal experience of disability, and it seemed likely to me that he would never have really internalized Katniss's claim that Peeta is a valuable partner, not a 'burden' who she has to provide for. Because 'everyone knows' that a 'cripple' is a burden, and Gale is not a fellow who spends a lot of time pondering the intricacies of the human condition.
> 
> 2\. Yes, Finnick's history of enforced prostitution is (to a lesser extent than canon) public knowledge, and yes, Katniss asked him about relationships. I wanted to convey, and hope I succeeded, that this escapes being an unpleasant or triggering experience for Finnick because Katniss really *is* asking his advice because she knows he's in love himself, and because she has absolutely no idea what she's supposed to do. Finnick, who didn't really get a chance to be a clueless kid himself, is able to reach out to one who's *not* about to die in the Arena for perhaps the first time.


	6. Due Process

  
I am seventeen when I am arrested for the first time.  
  
It's ironic. All the things I've done that merited arrest or even execution - hunting, leaving my District, owning weapons, - I am arrested for something I have _never_ done. I am accused of supporting the Capitol and the old government.   
  
All the careful plans made by Johanna and Finnick are cast into disarray when the train pulls into the station in the Capitol. One of their guards, the soldiers in grey, must have disobeyed them and reported our presence on the train. When the train stops, soldiers board through every door, weapons in hand. The ten Peacekeepers and four 'dissidents' - including me - are seized and manacled with rough hands. It's terrifying, and I don't have my bow.   
  
My only comfort is that they do not take Peeta. They try, knocking his crutches aside and throwing him on the floor, but then Cecelia is there and the kind, motherly woman reminds me she is a Victor when she picks up a stool and slams it into a New Peacekeeper's face so hard that blood sprays around the seat. "He is a _witness_ ," she snarls. "Look at him! Do you think he could fight anyone?"   
  
"Katniss!" Peeta has seen me, also on the floor, with my arms being cuffed behind my back. "Katniss, no!"   
  
"Stay here! You have to go home if I can't!"   
  
That's all I get to say to him before I am dragged away, but I know it is enough. He will understand. Prim and my mother will survive if he is with them. He may not be able to hunt, but he's smart and he can help them to nurse the sick. As long as she is the only doctor they have, people _have_ to keep my mother alive.   
  
We are thrown into the back of a large vehicle, and I wriggle out from under Stoker with an effort. It would be the biggest Peacekeeper who landed on me. "Sae, are you okay?"   
  
She answers with a string of profanity, but it seems that even the New Peacekeepers are a little more careful with old people than with the young. She is, at least, on top of the pile.    
  
"Bastards," Stoker mutters, and I am in full agreement with that sentiment. "We would have come quietly if they'd _let_ us."   
  
"It would have been nice to have the choice." That's Gale, who wouldn't have gone anywhere quietly. "Think the Victors'll be able to get us out of this one, Catnip?"  
  
Despair is more natural to me than hope. I have no faith in the goodness of humanity or the mercy of fate. But this time I find that I am certain that help is coming. Harry Moran will keep to the promise he made my mother, the promise made in the names of his dead allies, as long as he lives. I think Finnick and Johanna will want to rescue me too. I like them both, and I think they liked me - perhaps, though we're not really related, I am enough like Haymitch that they, too, think of me as his family. "I think that I wouldn't want to be the New Peacekeepers right now. Johanna's still pretty handy with a knife, I can tell you that."  
  
To our relief and the obvious surprise of Sae and Jeb, the man with the spear, we are not immediately dragged to the flogging post or the torture chamber. We are separated briefly, while our names are demanded, blood-samples taken and compared to Capitol records, and we are stripped of any potential weapons. After that, we are united in a cold, barren cell, each manacled to a wall by one wrist and a length of chain that permits a few steps of movement. I am a little amused to note that I am placed on the very end of the row, with Sae between me and the others and Theoph - the oldest surviving Peacekeeper - beside her. It seems so strange that the New Peacekeepers are concerned about my virtue.  
  
They need not be. Even if I didn't know these men well, they wouldn't lay a hand on me. Rape, like theft, has always been punishable by death in Twelve - and as one very unhappy asshole discovered this spring, nobody plans to change that law any time soon. It was the first execution we've had since the war. After some discussion of ways and means, it was decided that no expensive bullet would be wasted on the man. He was hanged.   
  
After seeing that, my mother's hatred of 'The Hanging Tree' made more sense to me.  
  
We have been waiting for hours, and are sitting on the floor and amusing ourselves by talking about our families back home - just in case anyone is watching - when a tall woman in a uniform subtly different from the others is let into our cell. She is black-haired, like me, but darker-skinned and she has the darkest eyes I have ever seen. It's striking, and I feel an odd pang of envy. Everyone in Twelve looks more or less the same - either blue eyes or grey, fair hair or dark. Only our Peacekeepers - Darius with his red hair, Corwin with his bright green eyes - look different.   
  
Gale stops in the middle of a story about his sister Posy's attempt to put a dress on her pet rabbit, and we all look up at the woman from our places on the floor. "Yes?" Darius says politely.   
  
She looks us over, a little puzzled frown creasing her brow. "You're the dissidents from Twelve?"   
  
"I suppose we are." Darius shrugs. "That's what you people keep calling us, anyway."   
  
Her eyes run along the line again. "Fourteen people," she says flatly. "Including two teenagers and an old woman. You're... not what we expected."  
  
Gale shrugs, staring up at her. "What did you expect, rabid supporters of Snow? An army?" His contempt is very clear in his voice. "All we did was tell your new Peacekeepers that they weren't taking ours away. That was all."  
  
"One of my men came back with an arrow through him," the woman says, raising her eyebrows.  
  
I raise my manacled hand. "That was me. They were trying to take our people away." A part of me knows that admitting it is probably stupid. A much larger part, the part that Peeta has gently instructed in handling people for the last two years, figures that I am the smallest and least threatening-looking person here and even the guy who actually got shot is going to sound pretty damn silly complaining about me as a threat to the new government.   
  
She looks at me, and the eyebrows rise further " _You_? You can't have been more than thirteen then."  
  
"I was fourteen," I snap defensively, and though it's an instinctive protest I can see from her face that it was the right thing to say. I _sound_ like a teenager, jealously protective of that one year as if it makes such a big difference.   
  
She cocks her head, looking me over, then shakes her head and walks over to me. Crouching just out of my reach, she rests her elbows on her knees. "All right. Say I believe that it was you. Why would you protect Peacekeepers?"  
  
We all look at each other, puzzled. "You don't know?" Sae asks, frowning. "We explained. The Mayor sent letters."   
  
"Let's say I want to hear it from you," the woman says, still looking at me. "Tell me how it seemed to you."   
  
So I tell her. I tell her about Fine, and the executions. I tell her about Darius shooting Fine, and point him out. Unkempt from the search and thin after our hard year, Darius looks hardly older than Gale. The eyebrows go up again. I explain about our twelve Peacekeepers, the ones who survived their attempt to protect us.  
  
"Twelve?" she asks, interrupting. "I only see ten here who could be from Two."   
  
I shrug. "Feron's heart gave out in the first winter," I explain. "He was the oldest. Cassius drowned this spring."   
  
She blinks. "Where in District Twelve can a man drown?" she asks, sounding puzzled.   
  
Gale snorts. "In spring, with snowmelt everywhere? Plenty of places. Cassius slipped and fell while he was out foraging and went into a sink-hole. It happens."   
  
The woman cocks her head again, thoughtfully. "Foraging for what?"  
  
We all stare at her as if she's the stupidest human who ever lived. "Food," I say, and this is so obvious to me that I don't really understand the question.   
  
This seems to make sense to her. "Oh, of course. If he was in hiding, he wouldn't have access to the usual food-sources, would he?"   
  
This time it's Jeb who answers her. "Foraging _is_ our usual food sources, in Twelve."   
  
The woman shakes her head, sitting back on her heels. "I did examine the records," she says dryly. "Food has continued to be shipped to Twelve, despite the dissident element. More than the Capitol used to send. It's not much, but nobody is going hungry."  
  
The sheer enormity of that lie leaves me breathless. Then I look at her and realize that she really believes it. She thinks she's caught _us_ out. "Lady," I say quietly, and that note is in my voice again, the smoldering rage that makes even Victors take me seriously. "Hungry was how most people died in Twelve before the rebellion. Starvation, or half-starved people getting sick, or their organs shutting down. And this last winter was the worst we've ever had. One hundred and twenty-six people, more than half of them children. Babies, plenty of them. And Haymitch." His name is like a quiet battle-cry. "Our Victor, who fought with you, who was part of the rebellion, he _starved_. So don't you fucking tell me that nobody is going hungry."   
  
She stares at me, and her face actually pales a little. "I... I don't understand. I know the Capitol always kept food at subsistence level, but there should have been enough - "  
  
"There was never enough." Gale's voice doesn't burn like mine. It's cold and bitter. "And you stopped the games. You stopped the tesserae. We had less than we've ever had."   
  
She looks bewildered. "Tesserae?"  
  
Gale tells her. He tells her how a boy of twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen, could keep his family just barely alive with his father gone. He tells her how many times his name went into the ball every year, in exchange for food. He tells her about my family, about a widow with two daughters and no way to earn money, about one of those daughters gambling her life over and over to feed her sister. About whole families in the Seam starving because nobody was willing to buy their children's futures with grain and oil.   
  
"It's like I told the Victors when they came," I say in that burning voice, when Gale runs out of words. "We were better off with the Hunger Games. At least most of us survived those."   
  
Darius speaks up, his voice quiet. "And Cassius wasn't in hiding," he adds, and he doesn't sound angry at all, just sad. Cassius was a friend of his, from the same town, with red in his light-brown hair. "None of us were. We're citizens of District Twelve now. Cassius was out looking for food for his family."  
  
The woman's composure survived my dig about the Games, just barely, but now it cracks and she looks stunned. "His family?"  
  
Darius nods. "He got married the spring before. Grace had a couple of kids - there are always widows and orphans in Twelve, especially since the last big mine accident. The kids were too young to remember their birth father, but they took losing Cass pretty hard." He tilts his head left, then right. "Corwin wanted to get married before the rebellion, but they wouldn't let him. He and Emily had a kid anyway, got married as soon as he was officially a rebel. Their second died this winter. Theoph has step-kids and step-grandkids - his oldest daughter got married last autumn. She and her husband froze to death this winter when their wood ran out in a storm." He sighs. "I was going to get married at Harvest," he adds wistfully. "But I couldn't take her into another winter like the one we just had. I couldn't. So we all got together and decided we'd turn ourselves in."   
  
The woman slips down onto the floor until she's sitting cross-legged, no longer poised to move fast. "That... isn't what it said in the reports I read," she says slowly, clearly troubled. "And yet you don't seem to be lying, and what you're saying tallies perfectly with what the Victors have told me. They're furious," she adds, smiling slightly. "Mr Moran, in particular, has been raising quite a fuss. That's why I'm here."  
  
"That's nice," I say, letting the sarcasm drip. "I'm sure we'd be more impressed if we knew who you were, though."   
  
She blinks. "You don't? I'm sorry, I do so many press appearances that I just assumed... I'm General Paylor. I'm the head of Panem's armed forces."   
  
I recognize the name, if not the face. I had started to like her, but that dies quickly now. "You're from Thirteen, then."   
  
She shakes her head. "I'm from Eight," she says, surprising me. "I'm one of the only higher official's who's not from Thirteen, though."   
  
"Your name was on the directives." Darius sounds no more forgiving than mine did. "The ones that told us the whole district was being punished for harbouring twelve fugitives, a guy with a spear, a couple of kids with bows, and an old lady with a fucking ladle."   
  
Paylor glances sharply at Sae. "A _l_ _adle_?"  
  
"Your bastards in grey took it off me on the train," Sae says sharply. "I want it back."   
  
Paylor nods, and she smiles suddenly. "I wondered where Mags got that," she says, almost to herself. Then she shakes her head. "Mags, the old mentor from Four, is keeping an eye on it. And by keeping an eye on it I mean she broke two of my assistant's fingers to get his attention."   
  
Greasy Sae, the terror of the Hob, beams proudly. "That's what it's for."   
  
Mags must be the old woman Finnick mentioned, the one he wanted Sae to meet. I'm glad she has the ladle. "Did you arrest her too? Because clouting one of your New Peacekeepers is why Sae's in here. She didn't even break any bones."   
  
"I was trying to," Sae mutters. "Little shit dodged."  
  
I can see in Paylor's face that this hits home. Like my defence of my age. Like Darius's description of the families left behind. We aren't hiding anything, and it shows. "I'm not sure what's gone wrong here," she says slowly, "but whether or not my name was on those directives or not, this is the first I've heard about them. And I *will* get to the bottom of this."  
  
"Check the population records," Theoph says, speaking for the first time. "Births, deaths, marriages. Everything's been reported. You'll see my name on my marriage papers, and Corwin's and Cass's too. You'll see Corwin's daughter's death certificate, and my daughter's too. You'll see 'starvation' on plenty of them, too." He glances at me. "And you might want to find out why nobody told the other Victors that Haymitch Abernathy committed suicide in the early stages of starvation," he adds. "Because they really weren't happy that they found it out from Katniss."   
  
Paylor glances sharply at me. "Why did they hear it from you?"  
  
I have more unvarnished truth to give her. "He was family."   
  
Those striking dark eyes narrow. "Haymitch Abernathy didn't have any family."   
  
"He was _my_ family," I snap, but Theoph reaches across Sae to touch my arm.   
  
"He didn't have any relations by blood, that's true," Theoph says quietly. "But it was Ruth Everdeen and her kids who took care of him in those last months. Who fed him and shaved him and got him off the drink. They were as much his family as Aspen and her kids are mine, came the end."   
  
Paylor looks suddenly sad. "I met him once," she says quietly. "Just once. He had the look of a man  who's been knocked down by life so often he doesn't know how to get back up."  
  
I nod, knowing the look she means. "He did. But he wasn't alone at the end."   
  
Paylor nods too. "I am going to examine the records you mention," she says, rising gracefully to her feet. It is the fluidity of her movements, not her face - because I know the Capitol is full of people who look young but aren't - that makes me realise that she's very young to be a General. "In the meantime... well, it would be futile to tell you not to worry. But you have powerful allies here, so don't give up hope yet."   
  
We're hopeful enough when she leaves. But hope wears thin after two days. We have nothing to pad the manacles with, and skin drawn thin over bones too prominent for summer begins to bleed. We are brought food twice a day by grey-uniformed men and women who say nothing to us. The food is not what I would have expected - it's not stale or rotten, at least. But it's bland and dull, and I suspect that anyone less familiar with hunger would leave it.   
  
We eat it all, naturally.  
  
On the third day, New Peacekeepers come for us. We are unchained and led to a series of tiny cubicles. For the first time we are separated, and I find myself shoved into a small, brightly lit cubicle. I sit in a chair, with a sort of desk in front of me that is divided in two by a clear wall. On the  other side of the wall, a woman in nondescript clothing sits with what I recognise as a recording device.  
  
I never knew before that answering questions could be so tiring. She asks questions for hours, and it's painfully frustrating for both of us because she seems to be working from the wrong list of questions. I can answer the first few. My name. My age (this seems to surprise her). My place of birth, my parent's names, my living family.   
  
After that, it gets harder. She asks me for my medical history, and I don't know what she wants but 'I've always been pretty healthy except for being hungry' isn't it. She asks me about my psychological history and I have to admit I don't know what she means. She acts as if I'm being deliberately difficult, but explains. I tell her I'm not crazy. She scolds me for using the word and gives me a list of terms that I've never heard before. I tell her I don't know what 'schizophrenia' or 'dissociative disorder' or the others are, and she keeps asking as if repetition will somehow make me understand better.  
  
She tells me I'm being uncooperative.   
  
After that, it only gets worse. She asks me about the 'initial resistance', refusing to let the Peacekeepers be arrested. She keeps asking me who organised it, who planned it, whose idea it was. I can tell she thinks I'm lying when I tell her it was unplanned, but how could it have been planned when we didn't know they were coming?  
  
She goes back, asking who organised the Peacekeeper's break with Fine. Nobody is, again, not the right answer. I have to admit eventually that it was Darius's idea, sort of, and she writes that down with a sigh that says I've finally given an answer she likes.   
  
She asks where the Peacekeepers hid. They didn't. They lived in the houses where they'd always lived, the ones that didn't get married. She is strangely interested by the fact that Corwin and Emily moved into Cray's old house - it was empty, and given that Cray had made their baby illegitimate everyone had figured they deserved it.   
  
She asks about dissent against the new government. I tell her there wasn't any until they started starving us, and she clearly doesn't believe that either.   
  
Just when I'm ready to scream with frustration, she moves on to Haymitch. The questions get easier, briefly. When we first went to check on him, and why. (She writes Maysilee's name down, and I'm glad I remember it.) Who gave us permission to move into the Victor's Village. Why we didn't live in Haymitch's house. Surprisingly, she seems entirely willing to accept the answer to that one - maybe she's heard some of the stories about him.   
  
But then she starts fishing for her chosen answers again. If there was any prior relationship between my mother and Haymitch. If there was any prior relationship between me and Haymitch. If Haymitch ever gave us gifts of food or money.   
  
I may not be able to tell when a boy likes me, but I did know about Cray and his repellent arrangement with any woman hungry enough to sell herself to him. When it dawns on me that she thinks that either my mother or I was whoring for Haymitch - who never, never, _never_ would have done such a thing - I try to break the wall between us with a chair.  
  
That ends my interrogation.   
  
I am the last to be brought back into our cell. When I am dragged in, still trying to kick or bite the man carrying me, I hear an outcry in which Gale's voice is the loudest. I can't really see who's yelling, because I'm dizzy from the blow to the face that let him get hold of me, but I draw blood with my teeth before he manacles me to the wall again and leaves.   
  
For another full day, we are brought no food at all. Clean water we can obtain from a spigot in the wall, and the tiny fold-down toilets in the walls serve their purpose too. If they intend to soften us up by starvation, it will take longer than this, I think grimly.   
  
The next morning, we are fed again and then taken from our cell. This time we are chained together, wrist to wrist, and made to walk in line. It seems clear that whatever the Victors were doing, it is not enough. The Peacekeepers think we are going to be executed, though they try not to say so in front of Gale and I. They don't need to - it shows in their eyes, in the way they stand, like men who have given up all hope.   
  
We are marched into a large room crowded with people - a courtroom, maybe? Instead of one judge, there are three sitting in a row, but otherwise it looks like the pictures I've seen.   
  
We are being led towards an empty row of seats when a hard voice sounds in the quiet room. "What the hell is going on here?"   
  
I know that voice.  
  
I look up at the judges, really looking this time. One is a small old man with dark skin and white hair, his face leathery in a way you never see in Twelve where men spend their lives underground, not in the sun. He is from Eleven, I recognise the look of him. He sits on the left. On the right is a woman with brown hair and eyes and skin as olive as my own. I can't tell where she comes from, but she looks to be in middle age, with little flaws and lines that indicate she's not from the Capitol.   
  
Sitting in the middle, glaring down at us, js a man with glasses who I recognize. I must have seen him as a mentor a few times - Three only has a few - but I remember him from the broadcasts during and after the war. His name is Beetee Latier, and he is a Victor.   
  
Our guards are staring at him, apparently puzzled. "The rebels from District Twelve," one of them says, gesturing to us. "My orders were to escort them to this courtroom."  
  
"Really." Latier sounds angry, but in a calm way. He doesn't shout or rant, but his voice gets harder and colder until it sounds as unrelenting as a blizzard. "I am impressed, Captain. You have single-handedly almost obviated the need for further deliberation by this court."   
  
The captain looks bewildered. "Sir?"   
  
The man from Eleven leans forward, his eyes fixed on me. "Brutality," he tells Latier, his voice thin but clear. "Look at the girl."   
  
Beetee takes in my black eye and bruised arms and his eyes narrow. "Miss Everdeen," he says, and that blizzard voice is suddenly a warm breeze. "I am very sorry for how you have been mistreated. This is not what either General Paylor or I ordered, and I apologize to you - and to your companions," he adds, glancing at each of them. "Captain, since you appear to have no capacity for independent thought or reasoning, allow me to give you orders you will understand. You will release your prisoners, who are in fact _witnesses_ and not prisoners. You will apologize to them for the appalling mistreatment they have clearly suffered at your hands. And then you and your men will lock yourselves into the cell or cells these people have been occupying and await release, is that adequately clear?"  
  
At last the captain is roused to protest. "Mr Latier, with all due respect to the court, you cannot order me to - "  
  
"But I can." Paylor rises from her place a few rows behind where we were meant to sit. "Captain. Do as you are told or I swear to God I will have you dragged."  
  
She sounds like she could do it. Clearly the captain agrees. He goes milk-pale, and starts fumbling with his keys and mumbling apologies. Only minutes later, we are standing in a huddle, looking around in confusion. In dirty, wrinkled clothes, the men unshaven and several besides me sporting bruises, we stand out badly in this lavishly appointed room with its clean, groomed crowd.   
  
"Under the circumstances," Latier says, glancing at his fellow judges, "I suggest that we cease here for the day, and resume tomorrow. These people require food, rest - and, I suspect, an explanation."   
  
"An explanation would be nice," Gale says dryly. "We're _not_ on trial for being terrible, scary dissidents?" He spreads his hands, taking in all fourteen thin, battered, nervous-looking people.   
  
Latier shakes his head slowly. "No," he says in that warmer voice. "No, Mr Hawthorne, you are not. But you are so perfect an example of the dangerous negligence and wrong-headed stupidity that we *are* investigating that we may not need you to actually speak at all."   
  
He and the other judges lay their hands flat on the wooden desk before them. That seems to be some sort of signal. Immediately, we are surrounded by people, male and female, who seem to want to take us somewhere. "What *now*?" Gale mutters, showing a mulish inclination to stay right where he is.   
  
Someone comes and touches my arm, and I look into a face I know. Here in a Capitol courtroom, it's easy to remember where. "You're... I saw you," I blurt out, staring at the red-haired girl. "Gale. _Gale_."   
  
He looks at her and frowns. "What - "  
  
"The boy and the girl. Years ago." I swallow hard. "In the woods, just before the war."   
  
I see his eyes widen, and I know he remembers. The boy and girl in the woods, taken by a Capitol hovercraft. The girl calling out to us for help as we cowered in hiding.   
  
The girl smiles at me, and then turns to Latier and moves her hands in a series of odd gestures.   
  
"Lavinia is an Avox, and can no longer speak," Latier says quietly. "But she says she remembers you, too. She says..." He cocks his head, watching her hands. "She says not to blame yourselves. You could not have helped her. But now she can help you. She was called a dissident too, for wanting to be free."   
  
I would have sworn there was no stranger I would have followed out of that room, but the red-haired girl takes my hand and smiles, and I lead my fellow dissidents along the path she indicates.  
  
She doesn't take us far. In a smaller room beside the courtroom, there are comfortable chairs and couches, with food laid out on a long table on one side. The others with Lavinia - who we guess are Avoxes too, since they do not speak and seem to communicate with hand-gestures - push the Peacekeepers and Jeb and Sae into seats and begin bringing food over. When Darius points to a bowl of things he calls oysters and asks for them, the dark-haired man he speaks to shakes his head, laying his hand on his stomach and making a funny pained expression. I see that the Avoxes are giving my friends simple foods - soup, bread, cups of what looks like milk. "I think he's afraid you'll get an upset stomach," I tell Darius.  
  
Darius sighs, giving the bowl a yearning look. "Probably. But it would be worth it. I only ever had them once, but fried oysters are the best thing I ever ate."   
  
The Avox smiles at him, and brings him three of the bite-sized things on a small plate, managing to convey quite clearly that three is all he's getting for now.   
  
The red-haired girl - Lavinia - nudges me and Gale towards the door again. Gale immediately plants his feet. "Why are we going somewhere else?"  
  
Lavinia points to me, then hops on one foot for a few steps. "Peeta!" I all but shove her towards the door. "Where is he? Is he all right?"   
  
"She can't talk, Catnip," Gale reminds me, and I hear him following.   
  
"She can still nod or shake her head, can't she? Is he all right?" I ask again, louder.   
  
Lavinia covers her mouth in a silent laugh and nods. Then she leads the way to another room.   
  
It's full of people, and I vaguely recognize Johanna and the bulk of Harry on my way to Peeta. I was so afraid. The whole time we were locked up, I knew the others were safe because I could see them, but I couldn't see him. I didn't know if he was all right. I'm vaguely aware of shoving someone aside and then his arms are around me and his crutches hit the floor but it doesn't matter. I can keep him steady.   
  
He's holding on as tightly as I am, and I can feel him shaking. "Katniss... nobody knew where you were, for days, we couldn't find you and I thought..." He swallows hard, pulling back enough to touch my face with gentle fingers. "What happened? Who did this?" I have never heard gentle Peeta sound quite so angry.   
  
"One of the guards." I shrug, smiling even though it hurts my face a bit. "The woman asking me questions yesterday - no, two days ago - hinted that Haymitch was like Cray, you know, paying for... anyway, I tried to kill her with a chair."   
  
Peeta laughs suddenly and hugs me again. "You would."   
  
"If that was as insulting as it sounds, damn right she would." Johanna is there, guiding us both into the big chair where Peeta was sitting. It's wide enough for two skinny teenagers, and I'm certainly not planning to let go any time soon. "She slapped me just for calling him an old drunk, and nobody's been stupid enough to do that since my Games."   
  
"She slapped you? I'm surprised she's still alive." I don't know that one personally, but I know who she is. Seeder, one of the mentors from Eleven.   
  
Johanna shrugs. "I came close to knifing her, but then she told me not to call Haymitch names. It was such a surprise that I let her go." She passes me a cup, and I feel warmth and smell sweetness and mint. "Here, Peeta says you like mint tea."   
  
"It's my favourite." I lean against Peeta's side and sip my tea. It has sugar in it, and I've never tasted anything so good. "So what's going on?"  
  
I don't really follow all of what the others say, but Peeta breaks it down fairly clearly. After the war, District Thirteen more or less took over running the Capitol. They were the only ones who knew how - nobody in the Districts, except maybe Two, could even spell 'infrastructure', let alone keep it running. They did bring in a few people from the other districts - Paylor and a few others in the military, local leaders like the old man I saw as judges and administrators. But mostly it was Thirteen.   
  
And that's what went wrong in Twelve. Coin gave orders that any surviving remnants of the old regime - like Peacekeepers - should be rounded up and arrested. Apparently it didn't occur to her to mention that she didn't mean remnants who had rebelled against the Capitol. So beaurocrats, overseers and the like were rounded up in all the districts, until they got to Twelve, where the intransigent locals refused to cooperate.   
  
Whoever was in charge of administering Twelve then started following steps laid down to 'suppress dissent'. First, demonstrate good intent - the year of lavish food and free trade; while following directions not to send non-combat personnel into an area that has not been pacified - withholding the doctor and so on who should have been sent.   
  
Second, prevent communication with possible dissidents outside the area. That's why Haymitch couldn't get us help, why Mayor Undersee only got orders to hand over the Peacekeepers and the dissidents. The only people they were able to contact, with the communication 'lockdown' in place was the man responsible for it and his underlings.   
  
Third, withdraw all but basic supplies. While it would be cruel and inhumane to starve the population, dissidents cannot be rewarded either - so he dropped back food shipments to what they'd been before, calculating that given our casualties during the war, sufficient food for eight thousand people should be perfectly adequate for a little less than seven and a half thousand. But he  never adjusted the shipments the Capitol had sent in exchange for our coal to include the quantities of grain and oil sent as tesserae.   
  
I ask what step four would have been, and Peeta's face hardens. "Military intervention," he says grimly. "If you hadn't approached Johanna we would have been invaded again this fall."   
  
"And we would have fought," I say, glancing up at Gale.   
  
Gale nods. "Tooth and nail," he says, just as grim as Peeta. "The way we see it in Twelve, the new government isn't much different from the old one - and we've had years to arm ourselves now."  
  
"And that would have been the end of District Twelve." It's Seeder who says that. She's sitting across from me, sipping from a mug of her own. "The idiot had already written up a recommendation that the 'dissident area' be forcibly pacified as an example to other dissidents, given that the small population in Twelve would not represent a great genetic loss if destroyed." She smiles thinly. "That got leaked yesterday morning. There have been eighteen riots since, in all the districts and the Capitol as well."  
  
"Even One and Two. Especially Two." A tall, broad-shouldered older woman with short blonde hair sits beside Seeder and passes me a plate with little bite-sized bread rolls on it, split and spread with butter. "Here, try the bread from Three. I'm Lyme, by the way. Victor from Two." She makes a wry face. "My district held out even longer than One against the rebellion, and we're not popular with the new government - even those of us who joined the rebels. We were made examples of, too. Lost nearly a tenth of our population." She sighs, watching me inhale the food. "So there's plenty of anger there already. When people found out that some of *our* people, Peacekeepers from Two, were alive in Twelve and being protected by the citizens... it meant a lot. And they weren't with the rebellion, either. They may have fought the Capitol, but it wasn't... it was different."   
  
Seeder pats her hand. "Things have been hard in Two. There's a lot of anger... against people like Lyme, who were with the rebellion. Against the new government. Against everything. But not Twelve, not in these last few days. The surge of public sentiment has been... unmistakeable. Twelve protected some of their men even against the rebellion itself. Twelve let them settle, have families. The way plenty of people in Two see it, Twelve is the only district willing to give them a chance."  
  
Gale leans on the back of the chair I share with Peeta. "They do know that we killed *most* of the Peacekeepers in Twelve, right?"  
  
Lyme smiles wryly. "They do. They also know - Harry's made sure of that - that Twelve was the only district that didn't even know there was a revolution going on until extra Peacekeepers were sent in. They didn't fight until your Peacekeepers tried to defend them from unjust oppression... and then they fought *with* the Peacekeepers they knew and trusted. They don't expect anyone to love them, but the way they see it Twelve was the only district willing to give them a fair shake." She shrugs and actually laughs. "Besides. You did it with bows and spears and, the way I hear it, thrown rocks. A district that prides itself on its warriors can respect that kind of courage."   
  
"Eleven didn't take the news about Twelve well either." Seeded nods. "Actually, most of the districts didn't. Thirteen seems to have been under the impression that Twelve isn't especially important. It's small, doesn't produce much, and so on. They don't really understand how those of us who lived under Capitol rule feel."   
  
I frown, finishing my tea. "And how's that?"  
  
"Like someone just punched a kid right in front of us. Again." It's Finnick who hands me a new cup of tea. "It's bad enough for us, all of us. But Twelve always had it worst of any of us. The fewest people, the least food... we Victors know. Every year, we'd get tributes who at least knew how to use an axe, if they were from Seven, or a sickle if they were from Eleven, or... something. And then Haymitch would show up with a couple of kids who'd never had enough to eat and didn't have even the basic training the kids in the other districts got. They didn't even know how to climb a tree or find water."   
  
Lyme nods. "I know you don't think much of Careers - I wouldn't, if I were you," she says seriously. "But your system worked like ours, you know."   
  
I stare at her. "What system?"  
  
"The tesserae. We had them too - except it wasn't just a matter of putting your name down. A volunteer who went into training, their family got provided for for all six years." Lyme's face is grim. "Even if the volunteer died during training - and some of them did. If you went to the Games, they got four more years if you died in the Arena. Oh, it got dressed up in glory and honour for the district, but that was how it worked."   
  
"That was what I did." Finnick moves over to lounge on the arm of Seeder and Lyme's couch. "I was like you - father dead, family to think of. So I volunteered when I was twelve, and went into the Arena at fourteen. You don't get to choose when you go in, you see," he adds, his face tightening. "Not in Four. But your family's guaranteed all the years either way, and I had three younger siblings who needed them." His face tightens, and I remember that Finnick is one of the Victors described as having 'no living family'. I wonder what happened to those brothers or sisters, and decide I'd rather not know.  
  
Any lingering resentment against the Careers dies there and then. Of course it wasn't fair, the advantage they had. Nothing about the Games was fair. But I nod slowly. "I would have done it," I tell him, meeting his eyes. "For Prim."  
  
"So would I," Gale says grimly. "There's five of us."  
  
Peeta squeezes my hand. "Harry started talking to the cameras as soon as you were taken away. The districts all have their own news services now. Coin could suppress some of it, but not all of it... not even most. I don't think she realised that most of the districts would take steps to make sure the Capitol *couldn't* suppress them."   
  
That makes me laugh. "What, she thinks after seventy years of the Games and people like Snow we're going to trust _her_?"   
  
That makes all the Victors laugh too. "Yes," Johanna says, smirking. "It seems like she did. She's had a very disappointing few days."   
  
Johanna explains that part. Coin realized two days ago that she had to either allow the public investigation of the 'atrocities' in Twelve or face a second rebellion - from Districts she and her people had armed and trained. Since then, Coin's new government has been taking a public beating on every news service, and the districts are threatening rebellion anyway. Apparently singling out Twelve is about as popular with the others as punching Posy would be with her brothers. We're small, we have almost no resources, and picking on us is clearly unfair.   
  
The hearing we were supposed to be witnesses at is going to curb Thirteen's influence somehow. I miss the details because I fall asleep with my head on Peeta's shoulder.   
  
I half wake up when I'm scooped up in strong arms, and look up to see Finnick's handsome face. "Shh," he murmurs, carrying me into another room and settling me on a couch. "You've earned some sleep."  
  
I might protest, but then I hear a familiar tap and shuffle and relax. "Peeta?"   
  
He draws a blanket over me. "It's okay, Katniss. We won't start the revolution without you."  
  
"Want a bow," I mumble, letting my eyes close again.   
  
Just as I drift off, I feel something soft and warm brush my temple... a kiss, very gentle. "I'll get you the best bow they have," Peeta promises, his voice husky as if he wants to cry. "And nobody's taking you away from me again."   
  
I want to tell him that nobody's taking him from me either, but I am already asleep.   
  



	7. The Boy On Fire

  
When I wake up a few hours later, I am taken to join the others at a building familiar from a thousand establishing shots at the beginning of the Hunger Games - the Tribute's Tower.   
  
"This is ours," Finnick tells me, looking up at the tower a little wistfully. "The Victors all live here when we're in the Capitol. There are painful memories, of course, but... it's ours, paid for in far too much blood."   
  
The red-haired girl, who stayed with me, Finnick and Peeta until now, smiles and pats my arm in farewell. She walks towards one of the elevators, not turning when I make a garbled sound of protest.  
  
Finnick understands. "You'll see her again. She and a lot of the other Avoxes live here. There were always Avoxes around the tributes, you see. People who knew the price of disobedience too well to try to help the kids. When we asked, they said they preferred to stay." He smiles sadly. "They trust us, for some reason. They seem to think we've suffered as much in our way, at the Capitol's hands, as they have."   
  
I  nod. That makes sense to me. If I had been taken, tortured, deprived of speech and forced to serve, I think that I would want to stay near the Victors who organised a rebellion too. "I'd like to see her again. I... I still feel like I should apologise to her."  
  
"If you want to." Finnick smiles at me, seeming to understand. "She happens to work on Twelve's residential floor, so she'll be looking after you and your friends anyway."   
  
Riding the elevator is like nothing I've ever experienced. Fast, exhilarating, as smooth and perfect as Capitol satin. Finnick is so understanding that I venture to ask if we can go again, with Peeta eagerly seconding my request. He chuckles and takes us up and down twice more, admitting that he felt the same way on his first ride. Peeta and I press our noses to the glass and feel as if we are flying.  
  
After that, I check that everyone is present and unhurt, and find that they're now much cleaner than I am, dressed in a motley collection of fancy clothes. "They belonged to Victors... or Tributes," Gale tells me quietly, twitching his shoulders in their soft blue shirt as if it's uncomfortable. I don't know why - it's not as if he hasn't worn a dead man's clothes before. It's rare to get anything new in families as poor as ours. "The Avoxes say - well, Mags says that they say - they had to keep a lot of them on hand, not knowing what size a Tribute might be."   
  
The red-haired girl - I have to remember that her name is Lavinia - comes for me then and takes me to a bedroom that is fancier than anything I've ever seen. She offers me the choice of several outfits, and I pick a pair of flowing chocolate-brown trousers and a loose green sweater. She adds underwear that - aside from being pink - looks much like what I usually wear, and guides me to a bathroom. She has to show me how the shower works, and after I get a whiff of something that smells like Effie Trinket used to look I'm glad that she points out the knobs that will get me water scented only with a hint of chamomile. I'm surprised that people here even know what chamomile is.   
  
I stay in the shower until my fingers start to wrinkle. I've never had all the hot water I wanted before, and when I step out I'm so clean that I squeak. As I do, I smell that pink-scented perfume again, and wonder suddenly whatever happened to Effie Trinket. I suppose she was executed, like most of the people associated with the Games. I wonder if Haymitch knew, and what he thought of it. He did have to work with the woman for years, he must have known her.   
  
I join the rest of my group as soon as I'm decent, and the Avoxes feed us again. We try to tell them that we can take care of ourselves, and Gale actually winds up all but fighting the tall man who wouldn't give Darius more oysters for a plate of sausages. The tall Avox clearly finds this funny, but he goes to get a translator. Apparently most of the Victors have learned at least some of the signs the Avoxes use, because Rhapsody (from One, of all places) translates a polite but firm request to let them do their jobs. They know that we have had little to eat for a long time, and aren't used to rich food. They've served many Tributes from poor districts, and they know what will make us sick and what won't.   
  
Rhapsody also tells us not to worry - our own clothes will be returned to us when they're cleaned and dried. Then she leaves in a swirl of perfume and a flash of glitter from her tight dress, and the tall Avox stares meaningfully at Gale until he sits down, scowling like a scolded child.   
  
The others are already bandaged up. Lavinia attends to my chafed wrist and my bruises while I eat, rubbing on some kind of ointment that kills the pain instantly. I'm grateful, because the vegetable soup is wonderful and the pain when I opened my mouth was distracting. Peeta and Greasy Sae and I speculate about what exactly is in that soup all through the rest of the meal, until Lavinia slips away and reappears, with her silent laugh, to hand a slip of paper with the recipe on it to Peeta.   
  
After dinner, the Peacekeepers gather around the phone in one of the bedrooms with a sheet of paper. They've been given  some information about those of their family and friends who are still alive, including how to contact them, and one by one they start calling. I try not to hear the voices clogged with tears and laughter and sometimes anger - this seems like something private.   
  
Jeb wanders off somewhere. Sae, her ladle now in her possession again, badgers the Avoxes into showing her the kitchens. Gale is sitting in front of the huge television screen, intently watching the news broadcasts. Those hold my attention for a while, but then I notice that Peeta is sitting by a window and drawing. I get up, going over to see what he's doing, and he groans. "You _moved_ ," he protests, and I know he was drawing me.   
  
At least now I know why he likes to draw me.   
  
This drawing is different, though. Someone has given Peeta coloured pencils, and for the first time I see myself as something other than a charcoal sketch.   
  
"It's too pretty to be me," I tell him sternly, though now I also know why he sees me that way. I still don't love Peeta in that way, but I can't help being a little pleased that he draws me pretty because he thinks I am, not only for flattery.   
  
"The colours are all wrong," he says, frowning, though they look fine to me. "I need practice... I've never worked in colour before." He pushes the drawing aside and looks up at me. "How are you?"   
  
I sit down beside him, picking up one of the pencils and fiddling with it. "Confused," I admit. "It's all so much more complicated than it seemed at home. I mean... I'm still angry. Especially because of Haymitch. But... "  
  
"But you can't hate everyone in the Capitol any more," he says softly.   
  
"No." I look at him, at the face I know as well as Prim's or my mother's or Gale's. Far better than my own. "You never did, did you?"  
  
He shrugs. "I hated the government. I hated what they did."  
  
"But you thought about it. About the people like Lavinia, or the Victors, or..."  
  
"There must be children in the Capitol," he says, looking down at the paper with his delicate drawing of me on it. "Parents. Families."  
  
"Who watched the Hunger Games and cheered," I say defensively.   
  
"Who knew what would happen to them and to their children if they didn't." He looks past me, and when I turn I see the tall Avox clearing the table. "I'm just saying... it's always more complicated than us and them. Good guys and bad guys. Not everyone in Twelve is good, you know that."   
  
"Yeah, but..." I trail off. I know what I want to say - that it's easier to keep things simple. That thinking of families in the Capitol being afraid for their children too is too hard. But with Peeta's eyes on me, I find I have the decency to be ashamed of that thought.   
  
"Hey, it's us! Come and look!" Gale breaks the tension, and I'm glad of it. I go over to look at the screen.   
  
I see us being dragged off the train - it's obviously footage from a security camera, filmed from above and to one side. It is painfully obvious that we are not resisting, that we are thin as rakes next to the well-muscled New Peacekeepers manhandling us. Gale and I get the most attention, with a warm female voice murmuring about injustice as the shots are paused on our faces.   
  
"Clever," Peeta says quietly, and I realize he's right behind me.   
  
"Clever how?" Gale asks, frowning.   
  
"You look like Tributes," Peeta says, gesturing to the screen. "A couple of kids being dragged away by big, strong Peacekeepers. There's nobody in any of the districts who'll handle that well. Not when they finally thought it was over."   
  
I'm impressed. I never thought of that - I just thought that it was the usual Capitol bias toward the young and relatively appealing. I've never thought I was pretty, but I'm reasonably confident that I'm easier on the eyes than Stoker or Greasy Sae. But now that Peeta's pointed it out, I see it. "Maybe I should have cried or something. I didn't think of there being cameras."   
  
They both laugh, and then look startled at having done anything in unison. "I don't think crying's a good idea. You're not good at it," Gale says, grinning up at me. "You always look mad when you do it."   
  
I swat him. "Shut up. Why didn't _you_ cry, then?"  
  
He grins, ignoring the smack on his shoulder. "I hit my head when I went down. It was all I could do to focus my eyes for a few minutes, let alone put on a show. And yes, someone already looked at it, I'm fine."   
  
"Good." Then there's more footage of us, and I nod approvingly. "Oh, that's better." This is from the courtroom, when we were being led in. Thin, grimy men with despair in their eyes, a tall miner with stooped shoulders and an old woman shuffling in the rear. And there, in the middle, me and Gale. Young, obviously bruised, but radiating so much defiance that I'm startled. "I didn't know I looked _that_ angry."   
  
"You looked like you were about to tackle that captain and rip his throat out with your teeth." Gale grins. "I was considering it myself."   
  
"It looks like it." Peeta nods, then touches my shoulder lightly. "I'm going to get some sleep. Gale and I are in the third room on the left, with Darius and Theoph."   
  
I nod, glad that he knows I'd want to know and doesn't make me ask. "I think I'm in the first on the right. With Sae, I guess."   
  
I share the wide bed with Sae, which doesn't bother either of us. We still have more room than either of us is used to, I suspect.   
  
The next morning, a second table is set up and guests arrive for breakfast. At one table, our Peacekeepers sit with a couple of Victors and some other people from Two, catching up on the news from home. At the other, the 'dissidents' sit with the Victors we know from the train, and a couple of additions. One is a shy boy of around ten, who Cecelia introduces as her son. Looking at him, I feel a little guilty for telling her that we were better off with the Hunger Games. She must have spent his whole life afraid, knowing what would come...   
  
The other is a young woman with long brown hair and a sweet face. Even if I didn't recognise Annie Odair from the news, the way that Finnick holds her hand and touches the obviously pregnant swell of her stomach would tell me who she was. Nevertheless, Finnick introduces her, and she smiles shyly at me. "Finnick says your family adopted Haymitch," she says simply. "Thank you."   
  
I mumble something, and start eating as quickly as possible. I'm glad so many people seem to care about Haymitch, but the thanks are getting embarrassing.   
  
Not as embarrassing as what slips out of me a few minutes later, when Cecelia looks at me across the table and tries to include me in the conversation about babies that she's having with Annie. "Katniss, your mother is a healer, I remember. Does she favour delivering in water?"  
  
I am not prepared for that question, could never have been prepared for it, and the mouthful of tea doesn't help. I choke and splutter and blurt out the first thing that pops into my head. "I don't know! I don't _want_ to know! That stuff is revolting!"   
  
There is a silence that lasts about three seconds, which is plenty of time for me to wonder what the chances are of throwing myself into a laundry chute or something to escape the way everyone is staring at me, especially the startled hurt in Annie's soft eyes.   
  
Then Peeta laughs - not a fake polite laugh, but a genuine chuckle. "Sorry," he says, when everyone looks at him, "but you're asking the wrong person." He gives me an affectionately teasing look, the kind he and Prim always turn on me when this sort of thing comes up. "Katniss can hunt and gut and skin animals without turning a hair, but show her a human leaking even a little blood and she bolts for the door. Pus or open wounds... or babies coming... and she's too woozy to bolt, she sort of staggers..."   
  
"Really?" Finnick says, more as if he wants to get past the awkwardness than because he believes it. I see him squeeze Annie's hand under the table, and feel smaller and guiltier than ever. The former Annie Cresta has been through more than enough without me embarrassing her.  
  
Peeta snickers. "Oh, yeah. Last year _I_ wound up having to help with a delivery because she couldn't do it." He smiles at me. "But the father was in the mine, Prim was away, and when the mother came in practically in transition already, Ruth knew there just wasn't time to get anyone else. Obviously Haymitch wasn't going to be any use, so it was me or Katniss."  
  
I can feel myself blushing furiously. "And I did try," I mumble, glad that my completely genuine embarrassment is easing the tension a little. I try never to think about that horrible event. Ever.   
  
"She did try," Peeta agrees, practically radiating charming amusement. "She really did. But Ruth threw her out after ten minutes because she was scaring the mother... and I didn't blame the mother!" he adds, snickering. "Katniss was a pale greenish-yellow, and swaying, and making that noise, you know the one, when you're trying not to throw up... I was surprised she hadn't thrown up already, actually. She looked like a walking corpse."   
  
"Oh, thank you _so_ much." I throw a roll at him.  
  
He catches it, still grinning. "So then _I_ had to go in, because Ruth said at least she knew I wasn't going to faint and leave her with two patients and no help." He makes a comical face. "And let me tell you, that is _not_ how I anticipated seeing certain things for the first time, but it would have been cruel to try to send Katniss back in there. At least it was only about an hour after that that the baby was born."   
  
Annie is no longer looking hurt, so I decide to sacrifice my pride a little more. "And I had to bring in the cloth to wrap it in, and they hadn't washed it yet and it was all sticky and... ugh." I don't have to feign the shudder. That little pink thing all smeared with blood and weird sticky stuff... I've pulled a lot of things out of the stomachs of assorted animals, but I've never seen anything like that sticky stuff.   
  
Johanna promptly moves around, pushing Harry out of his chair so she can sit next to me. "Finally," she says fervently. "Someone who agrees with me."   
  
The Victors all laugh at that. "Johanna's even worse," Cecelia says with an indulgent smille. "She can cut a man in half without flinching, but use the word 'afterbirth' and - "  
  
Johanna actually covers her ears. "Oh, ugh, I was trying to _eat_!"   
  
I find myself laughing in sheer relief. "I know! Do they tell you it'll be different when - "  
  
"When you have your own! Yes!" Johanna shudders exaggeratedly. "And when you say you don't want to they don't - "   
  
"They don't believe you!" I finish. "I mean, no offence, Annie, I'm sure _you_ can handle it, but just thinking about the... the blood and the oozing and the weird sticky stuff - "   
  
"There's weird sticky stuff?" Johanna groans and pushes Harry's plate away theatrically. "There goes breakfast."   
  
After that, breakfast is a cheerful enough meal. Cecelia and Peeta tease us about our squeamishness, and Annie smiles shyly at me and tells me that she's the other way... she can't bear to see even a fish on a hook, but she was with her sister when her sister gave birth and didn't mind the sticky stuff at all. I tell her I won't try to make her sick by talking about hunting if she won't try to make me sick by talking about birthing, and she laughs.   
  
Afterwards, Finnick takes me aside. "Thank you," he says quietly.   
  
"For what?"   
  
"For telling Annie you're sure she can handle it. Most people don't think so," he says, his face shadowed. "And she is... fragile, sometimes. But she wants this. I've never seen her as... as focused as she is when she talks about the baby. She's so much better now than she was."   
  
I nod slowly. "She reminds me of Prim," I tell him, wanting to be reassuring. "I tried to teach her to hunt, and all she could do was cry over the dead animals. She used to have screaming nightmares about the Reaping, and I don't think she'd have made it through the Games even as well as Annie did. But she's going to be a wonderful mother. With sick people, or pets, or babies... that's when she's strongest. When she has someone to take care of."   
  
The naked relief on Finnick's face tells me that even he's been worried, and that he feels guilty for it. "It's exactly like that. She's been so happy since she got pregnant, talking about it and preparing... Cecelia's helped a lot. She's even said she'll come and help with the delivery."   
  
I shudder. "No offense, Finnick, but I plan to be in Twelve with my hands over my ears the whole time," I tell him firmly, and that makes him grin. "Peeta wasn't joking. That was the worst ten minutes of my whole life. But.. does it get cold in Four?"  
  
He nods. "In our part. Why?"  
  
"If I ever do get back to Twelve, I'll send you some rabbit furs," I promise on impulse. "They're thin and soft - my mother always keeps a few on hand for winter babies. I'll even trim the furs so the  legs aren't on them and Annie won't start thinking about little bunnies."   
  
He swallows hard. "Thank you, Katniss," he says softly. "You don't know what that will mean, to both of us."  
  
I do. How could I not? He's afraid that Annie will be like my mother. He knows what that did to my family. To me. If _I_ tell him I don't think it will happen, that has to be worth more than reassurances from anyone who doesn't understand like I do.   
  
Maybe Annie would be like my mother, but with any luck they'll never have to know it. As long as she has Finnick, as long as Cecelia and Mags are there to support her, I think she'll be okay.   
  
All too soon we are in our old, worn clothes again and being taken to the building that houses the courtroom.   
  
Several of them, it seems, because we're taken to a different one today. This one is bigger, with a barricaded-off area for the Victors and the people from twelve, and what seems like thousands of people crammed together behind it. "Those people aren't all from the Capitol," Gale murmurs, just as I notice it too. I see old people, scarred people, none of the bright colours or fanciful bodily modifications that people in the Capitol favour.   
  
"No, they're not." Johanna sounds smug. "They've been coming in on trains since yesterday morning. They're representatives from the districts... all but Twelve, since you're already here. They're here to hold your words."   
  
It turns out that 'holding words' is a tradition in both Eleven and Seven, which are large and spread-out districts with little contact between small villages. People with good memories are taught tricks to improve them, and sent on any contacts with outsiders. There they speak to other 'holders', committing to memory any news, tricks for outwitting overseers or foremen, even poems and songs. Then they carry the information back in the only thing even the Capitol can't search with any accuracy - their heads.   
  
Since the War, the practice has spread. The names of the dead, the locations of villages or farms now destroyed... important things are remembered, and spread among those who remember.   
  
Hundreds of holders are here today, and even I can see what that means. The districts are announcing their distrust of the new government. They have sent their living memory to witness events, to find out what really happened in District Twelve, because they don't trust Coin and her government to tell them.   
  
Good.   
  
Finnick points out President Coin to me - she's actually here, and I'm fascinated by her smooth, perfect hair and neutral expression. She looks as if she was built, not born, carefully perfected. She glances up at us once or twice, and I am sure I see a flash of dislike in her eyes.   
  
Latier and the other judges come in last, and everyone stands for them. Then they gesture, and a man I didn't really notice, a man in a simple grey shirt and pants, is brought forward. He is escorted by two New Peacekeepers, but his hands are free. "Who's that?" I whisper.   
  
Before anyone can answer, Latier begins. "Please state your name and your former position for the court," he says coolly.   
  
"My name is Lewis Carr," the man says calmly. "I am... I was... the Area Coordinator for District Twelve."   
  
I wondered why Gale, Peeta and I were interspersed between the Victors rather than sitting together. Now I know. Finnick is holding me in my seat with main force, and Harry is all but sitting on Gale. Even Peeta is being restrained by Johanna and Cecelia. This man. This ordinary man with his thinning hair and bland face and square hands. He's the one who murdered Haymitch. Who killed Corwin and Emily's baby.   
  
Corwin is being held down by Stoker, I can't help but notice. Stoker looks like he could be talked into letting go, though.   
  
Latier leads Carr through a series of questions and answers, and it becomes utterly apparent that Carr has no idea why he's in trouble. He really doesn't understand. He followed procedures to the letter. He did exactly what he was supposed to do. The fact that hundreds of people died because of his actions means nothing to him. He was obeying orders. If we had done the same, nothing bad would have happened to us.   
  
I watch Coin while Carr is talking. She just sits, hands folded, and she and her bland companions couldn't make it clearer that they agree with Carr. They don't smile or nod or anything, they're clearly trying to look neutral and uninvolved, but that only makes their indifference to my people's suffering more apparent.  
  
When Carr has finished proving that he is as heartless as Snow, Latier calls Darius up to the stand, and asks him to identify himself. Darius gives his name.  
  
"And what is your position?" Latier prompts.  
  
"I am a Peacekeeper in District Twelve," he says, hands folded in his lap. He usually looks younger than his years, but not now. Now he just looks tired and resigned, with none of the smile that makes him look as boyish as Peeta.   
  
"'Am'?" Latier asks. "Currently?"  
  
"Well, I was until a week ago," Darius says simply. "I don't know if I'll ever go home now."   
  
"You are still acting as a Peacekeeper in Twelve?" It's the woman with dark hair. "I was under the impression that you had... integrated into the population."  
  
"We have. But someone has to do it." Darius shrugs. "There's not much crime in Twelve. Never was - I mean, not real crime, not just poaching or not watching the Games or that sort of thing. But someone needs to enforce the law."   
  
"And who defines 'law' in District Twelve, these days?" the woman asks.   
  
Darius shrugs. "Mayor Undersee's who we take our orders from, if that's what you mean. But mostly we do what they've always done in Twelve. Follow the law as best we can, try to stay fed, and wait for spring."  
  
"Indeed." Latier adjusts his glasses thoughtfully. "Then tell me, Peacekeeper, about the day that you shot one of your fellow Peacekeepers."   
  
Darius does. He's not a very good public speaker, but Latier prompts him through the story. That he'd lived in Twelve for a couple of years. That he _knew_ there had never been dissent there, that Fine was wrong. The people in Twelve had enough to do trying to survive without attacking a Capitol that could destroy it in minutes. He explains what he says few people outside Twelve seem to understand - how small we are. One town. The Seam. A population of barely eight thousand people, even before the war and the winter took their toll.   
  
That he shot Fine because he couldn't live with what the man was doing, killing innocent people just because he could. Because he enjoyed it. That he had expected to be executed himself, but instead had found others joining him. He names all the Peacekeepers who turned that day. The six who died in the fighting along with the loyalist Peacekeepers. Feron, whose heart gave out only a short while later. Cassius, dead this last spring while foraging for his family. The ten who are still alive.   
  
When he runs out of words, Latier lets him go and calls Theoph. Theoph doesn't spare himself. He talks about his early understanding with Aspen - food for her children in exchange for her company in his bed. He stresses that this was common - with starvation the primary cause of death in the Seam, a Peacekeeper need never be lonely. He talks about becoming part of the family without even realising it. Worrying about the children every winter. Buying meat for them from Gale or from me. Wondering what would happen to them when his twenty years as a Peacekeeper ended and he was sent back to Two. The relief of knowing that if he died fighting in their defence, he need never leave them.  
  
He doesn't hide his tears when he talks about Ada's death, that last winter. About the grandchild she had promised her stepfather, smiling.   
  
Corwin comes next, and when Latier asks him why he turned he talks about Emily. About loving her, about Cray's refusal to allow Corwin to marry her."  
  
"But Peacekeepers can't marry," the old man says, frowning. "You knew that when you signed up."   
  
"Yes. I knew we couldn't fill out the papers at the Justice Building." Corwin looks up at him. "But there's a ceremony, in Twelve. Building a fire together, toasting bread, a song... in Twelve, that's what matters. I could have done that. Cray ignored every other rule - he bought more meat from the hunters than anyone, he practically lived at the Hob. Nobody at the Capitol would have needed to know, but it would have spared Emily the shame of having a baby without being married. It would have given my son a father. But he wouldn't let me toast a slice of bread. He wouldn't let me do that, for their sake." He pauses. "It would have been real to me," he adds in a low voice. "I didn't care about the papers. It would have been real to me."   
  
"Jumping the fire," the old man says. When Corwin looks up at him, he smiles slightly. "In Eleven, we jump over a fire," he says, his voice soft and reminiscent. "The papers are important to the Capitol, but to us, you're not married until you jump the fire hand in hand."   
  
Corwin nods slowly, but he doesn't say anything until he is dismissed. He doesn't mention the baby... I suspect it is too painful.   
  
The other Peacekeepers have little to add besides their names.   
  
Coin and her - advisors? guards? I don't know who the people in grey are - are still indifferent, still bland, reacting as little to the story of Ada's death or Corwin's family as I would to a litany of mathematical formulae.  
  
By the time my name is called, I am seething, burning with fury. How dare she. How dare she sit there and not care.   
  
I walk up to the stand and sit down on the wooden chair provided. From here, I can see everything. The crowd of observers. Coin. Peeta and Gale and the others. The Victors - not only the ones I know, but more who are ranked behind them. I recognize Rhapsody and Lyme, a woman called Cashmere who won the Games years ago. If I turn my head, I can look up at the judges.   
  
"Please state your name and occupation," Latier says calmly. His calm isn't like Coin's indifference. He sounds like a man going about a job of work, not indifferent but businesslike and focused. I can appreciate that.   
  
"Katniss Everdeen. I'm a hunter."   
  
"And when did you begin hunting?" he asks, surprising me a little.  
  
"When I was twelve."  
  
"Before the rebellion, then. You were aware that the penalty was death, I presume?"  
  
I wonder if he gave me that opening intentionally. I take it. "I was aware that the penalty for *not* hunting was death, too. I decided a firing squad was better than starvation. It's over quicker."  
  
The corner of his mouth I can see quirks the tiniest bit. Yes, that opening was deliberate. "And why did you start hunting at twelve, Miss Everdeen?"   
  
"Because my father died in a mine accident." I shrug. "The Capitol didn't care that my mother couldn't work. They left us to starve."   
  
"Indeed." Latier looks down at some papers in front of him. "I understand that that was not uncommon."   
  
"No. Gale - " I indicate him " - lost his father too. He had two little brothers and his sister was born a few weeks later. He had to hunt, and put his name down for tesserae, just like I did."  
  
"Ah. Can you explain 'tesserae' for me, please?"   
  
"It was part of the Hunger Games," I say, looking out at the listeners. At Coin, who sits immobile and unconcerned. "If you put your name down for the Reaping an extra time, they would give you grain and oil every month for a year. You could put your name down one time for every member of your family. It was almost enough to live on. Not quite."   
  
"And how often did you put your name down, Miss Everdeen?" he asks me quietly.   
  
"Four times every year. Once for law. Three times for food for my mother, my sister and me." I make a show of counting it up on my fingers. "This year, if the Games were still going, my name would be in the reaping ball twenty-four times." I look up at him. "If you had a big family, it could go as high as forty or fifty."   
  
I hear a soft murmur from the observers. They're from the districts, like me. They understand, I think. Coin, of course, is unmoved.  
  
Latier nods gravely. "Tell me, Miss Everdeen, were you grateful to the Capitol for the tesserae?"  
  
" _Grateful_?" It comes out in a furious yelp, and it takes all my self-control to speak calmly afterwards. "They deliberately kept us short of food, and then gave us the tesserae so we'd stay alive until we were eighteen. After that, we had to fend for ourselves. People starve in Twelve every year. _Every_ year." I look right at Coin, and I couldn't hide my loathing if my life depended on it - and it might, who knows? But I'm too angry to care. "And last winter was the worst," I tell her, and perhaps my open hatred startles her. Her eyes come up to meet mine, and she looks very slightly puzzled. "Over a hundred and twenty dead... including Haymitch Abernathy. Our Victor. He walked out of our house in a snowstorm so that my family... me and Peeta, my sister Prim and my mother... might live to see spring."   
  
"'Our' house?" The woman turns over some pieces of paper. "Ah. I see that you became resident in the Victor's Village last year... unlawfully so, technically. For what reason did you take up residence with Haymitch Abernathy?"  
  
I wonder if she's implying what the woman who questioned me clearly thought, and my fists clench again. "Someone had to take care of him. He couldn't take care of himself any more."   
  
The woman looks sceptical, but Latier nods. "I knew Haymitch Abernathy reasonably well," he says in his mild voice, looking over at his fellow judge. "Believe me, he was barely able to feed himself even when the Capitol was providing him with canned and dried meals he only had to heat up. He certainly couldn't take care of even basic bodily functions if he ran out of alcohol. He should have had a caretaker a long time ago, but he wouldn't let anyone into the house." He glances down at me, lifting his glasses to look at me thoughtfully beneath them. "But why you, Miss Everdeen? Why your family? Surely you, with a widowed mother and younger sister to provide for, and Mr Mellark who is barely able to travel the distance between his job and the Victor's Village in rain or snow, had enough to do without another unproductive mouth to fill."   
  
My throat tightens, and I want to defend Haymitch even though it's all true. I look over at Peeta, and he looks sad too. When he sees me looking at him, though, he holds my eyes for a moment, then glances side to side, then up at the judges.   
  
Johanna. Cecelia. Latier. All Victors, I remember. They, at least, will understand why.   
  
"Haymitch had an ally," I tell Latier quietly. "In his Games, twenty-five years ago. Her name was Maysilee Donner."   
  
The woman's eyebrows go up. "Is this relevant?"  
  
I ignore her. "Maysilee was my mother's best friend," I say, still focusing on Latier. I'm rewarded by a slow nod of understanding, though he doesn't say anything. "She had a sister, a twin... Merilee Undersee, the Mayor's wife. They remembered that Haymitch was Maysilee's ally. That they ended their alliance so they wouldn't have to kill each other, but... even though they weren't allies any more, Haymitch ran to her when he heard her scream." My mother described it to me once, and I can still hear the grief in her voice. I let it leach into my own. "He wasn't in time to save her, but he sat with her while she was dying. He held her hand. She wasn't alone when she died. That mattered."   
  
I can see Cecelia wiping her eyes, and the tight look on Johanna's face that I can tell hides deeper emotion. Even Latier looks sad for a moment. "I see," he says softly. "So when Haymitch's health failed..."   
  
"My mother wasn't going to let him die alone," I say quietly, though I know everyone in the room can hear me. "Mrs Undersee's health is bad... it always has been. She couldn't do much, though she and Mayor Undersee gave us as much food as they could, to help us take care of him." I shrug. "I'm a hunter, one of the best in Twelve, and my mother is a healer. Nobody was better equipped to take care of him than we were, and... and he let us. I don't think he would have let anyone else, but he was from the Seam too."   
  
The old man leans forward. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You pay your debts," I say slowly, trying to explain what I know in my bones in words these strangers will understand. "Haymitch wouldn't have taken charity. Not even to keep himself alive, I think. But he knew my mother was Maysilee's friend. That she was paying him back. And he knew we were from the Seam, that being in a warm house through the winter would make it easier for us too."   
  
I see a faint tremor around Latier's mouth, just for a moment. "I see," he says very gently. "Because of that old debt, because he could relieve you of hardship, he was able to keep his pride.  Thank you, Miss Everdeen. I know that must have meant something to him."  
  
I nod, glad he understands. "But then the food ran out. The bakery had to shut down because there was no more flour... so Peeta couldn't bring bread home any more, and he didn't have any money. The traders had all gone home, so I couldn't sell furs or herbs. I did well last year, we had a little money left... but there was nothing left to buy. It was all gone. My mother had to turn people away when they brought their children to her, she couldn't help them, because they were starving and so were we..." I swallow hard, remembering the babies and toddlers and Prim's anguished tears. "Haymitch tried to get help. The day before he died he was at Mayor Undersee's house nearly all day, trying to call someone, anyone... but all he got was Carr. Haymitch apologised for everything he'd said, he begged, but..."   
  
My voice breaks. My first impulse is to try to hide my tears, but I won't let anyone think I'm ashamed of grieving for him. He was sour and flawed and messy, but he was mine and I will not let the people who murdered him think he was unloved or unmourned. So I let the tears trickle down my face, swallowing hard so I can speak. "But he told Haymitch that he would only send more food if Haymitch turned over the dissidents... and Haymitch knew he meant me. I was the one who shot the soldier with an arrow. So... so he came home, and we ate a rabbit I caught, and we sang afterwards - Haymitch couldn't sing, but he liked hearing me and Peeta and Prim do it." I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. "His bed was empty next morning, when we got up, and it was snowing so hard... we couldn't go out after him, not until afternoon. We knew it was too late by then, but we tried..."   
  
It is not until I wipe my eyes again that I see that I am not the only one shedding tears. I wish Haymitch could have seen this. I wish he could have known that people cared. It's not only the Victors, either - many of the witnesses have tears in their eyes, and I see their lips moving in an eerie, silent chorus. They are committing my words to memory, I realise. They are remembering Haymitch's death.   
  
Coin sits, dry-eyed and uncaring.   
  
Latier gives me a moment to collect myself before asking the next question. "Miss Everdeen, if I may ask... why did you shoot the soldier who came for the Peacekeepers? I assume you mean it was the first shot, the one that began the conflict?"   
  
"Yes. That was me. I wasn't trying to kill him," I add, wanting to be clear. "If I'd wanted to kill him, he'd be dead. I figured if I hit him in the calf he wouldn't be able to fight, but he wouldn't be seriously hurt either."   
  
Latier nods. "That tallies with the report regarding your skill with a bow. Very well. _Why_ did you shoot him?"  
  
"He was trying to take our people away. Nobody is ever taking our people away to hurt them ever again." I look around the courtroom. "After the Games... and what they used to do to anyone who broke the law... it wasn't planned. We didn't even know anyone was coming. But we fought when the Peacekeepers came, before. We fought our own rebellion, even if it wasn't big or important enough to matter to anyone outside Twelve. And we did it so nobody could ever take our people away again. No matter who they are."  
  
"Did it occur to you," the woman asks rather dryly, "that if 'your' Peacekeepers had simply gone quietly and explained the situation, that this could have been resolved without harm coming to anyone?"  
  
I stare at her as if she's crazy, as she obviously is. "No."   
  
Her eyebrows go up. "No, it didn't occur to you, or no, you don't think the issue could have been resolved?"  
  
"No, we didn't think anyone who got on that train would come back." I roll my eyes, realising the problem. "You're from Thirteen," I say, letting my disgust show. "You have to be. Nobody from the Districts would say something that stupid."  
  
The old man laughs quietly, to the woman's clear annoyance. "I don't see what - "  
  
I am on my feet, though I don't remember how I got there. "If someone from the government drags someone onto a train, they don't come back! Not ever! Not _ever_!" I am shouting it at her, rage setting my voice afire. "Ask anyone, from any District! There's no such thing as a fair trial, there's no such thing as 'explaining', not to the government! They take people away and they torture and kill them no matter what!"   
  
"Miss Everdeen." Latier's voice is still calm. I would scream at him, but when I look at him he holds my eyes with his. "While your point is entirely reasonable, please express it more quietly. And sit down."  
  
I sit, scowling.   
  
"She's right," the old man says in that conversational tone of his. "Nobody in Eleven would have done it either. Getting on a train means never coming back." He leans forward, looking past Latier at the woman. "It's what we keep trying to explain to you," he says almost sternly. "You in Thirteen, your leaders have protected you. Kept you alive. You just don't seem to understand how deep distrust runs in the Districts. And in Twelve - did one single person associated with your rebellion even contact those people? Give them so much as a few firearms to fight with? They fought off Peacekeepers with bows and spears while you sat on an arsenal, and you expect them to _trust you_?"   
  
"Your impartiality is clearly compromised," the woman says grimly.   
  
"Impartial, shit." The old man snorts. "I am telling you how things are. These are wounded people, Amara. They're scared, and they've got less than no reason to trust anyone outside their own district... and the harder they're leaned on, the harder they'll fight. That's how the world outside your tunnels works."   
  
It's not entirely true that I trust no outsiders. I love the old man from Eleven. He understands, he's on our side... and so are the witnesses, I can tell by the wave of nods and murmurs.   
  
"We just fought a war," I say, drawing their eyes back to me. "We didn't know there was a rebellion until the Capitol started punishing us for it... but we fought. I killed my first man when I was fourteen. I saw kids I'd known my whole life die when the Capitol bombed the school. My little sister only survived because of Peeta." I gesture at him, at the crutches leaning against the rail in front of him. "He covered her body with his. He lost his leg, almost died because he was shielding a little girl he didn't even know. And nobody came. No doctors. No help. Nothing. And then when it was over, when we'd lost more than five hundred people out of only eight thousand, more soldiers came and said we had to hand over prisoners." I turn to look out at the witnesses, at the cameras, at Coin. "And we said nobody was ever taking our people away again. We didn't even know who the men in grey were! They just showed up, giving us orders as if they owned us!"   
  
"I believe they identified themselves as agents of the new government?" Latier says, making a question of it.  
  
"Sure, that's what they _said_ ," I agree. "But anyone could say that. I could say that. It doesn't prove anything."   
  
"But you knew, later, that the demands were legitimate." The woman from Thirteen has stopped pretending to be friendly. "Why did you refuse - "  
  
"Because people who get on the trains don't come back! Weren't you _listening_ a minute ago?"   
  
"So you admit that Twelve was in open rebellion, based purely on an assumption pertaining only to the old government..."   
  
The woman trails off. I can't figure out why until I look around. Peeta is standing up, leaning on his crutches, and his hand is raised. After a moment of absolute silence, as everyone stares at the boy with his hand up as if he is in the schoolroom, he clears his throat and gives a little self-deprecating smile. "Excuse me," he says, very politely, very calmly. "I'm sorry, I don't know how you do things here. I'm not sure if you even have it all worked out yet. But Katniss is going to need you to explain that statement."   
  
The woman stares at him. "What?"  
  
He looks around, smiling that shy, charming smile again. "In Twelve, mostly what we learn about in school is coal. I've had a chance to do some reading since I got to the Capitol, but Katniss has been in a cell since we arrived, so she isn't going to understand what you mean by that. Actually, I'm not sure I do, either."  
  
I open my mouth to protest that it was perfectly clear to me, but Peeta's eyes meet mine and I close my mouth again. I don't know where he's going with this, but clearly he has something in mind, so I try my best to look confused. After a look from me, Gale does as well. We've hunted together often enough to know when to stay quiet and let someone take a shot.  
  
"Mr Mellark. Customarily, the court does not permit interruptions from witnesses who have not yet been called." Latier hesitates, and I suspect that he knows Peeta's up to something too. "However, I am aware that it has been Capitol policy to limit education as far as possible within the Districts, especially in Districts where primary production does not require a wide knowledge-base. For that reason, you may quickly and succinctly express the point you find confusing so that we may clarify it."  
  
"Of course." Peeta nods. "It's the bit about open rebellion. We rebelled against the Capitol. We all did." He gestures around the courtroom. "But now the judge has asked Katniss to confirm that there is a rebellion against the new Council, is that right?"  
  
"Yes," the woman says, but slowly, as if she suspects there's a trick coming.   
  
Peeta nods, thoughtful and serious. "But a rebellion is defined as an act of armed resistance to an established government or leader," he says slowly.   
  
The woman snorts. "And you're questioning the definition of 'armed resistance?"  
  
Peeta looks at her, and the sweet harmlessness seems to fall away from him. I can count on one hand the times I've seen Peeta truly angry, but this is something beyond even my rage. He is as unyielding as stone. "I'm questioning what the fuck makes you think that you're our government, established or otherwise," he says flatly. "We didn't have anything to do with your rebellion. We fought by ourselves, for ourselves. You left us to die during the war, and you left us to fend for ourselves afterwards. We've paid in coal and goods for every single damn thing we've had from you. So what exactly gives you the right to order us to do _anything_?"  
  
There is a silence so absolute in the courtroom that I don't think anyone can even be breathing. I know I'm not.   
  
I would have said yes, we were rebels, if that was what it meant to protect our people. I never would have thought of this. It never occurred to me to question whether the Capitol had the right - no, not the right exactly, but the power to rule over us.  
  
From the stunned fury on Coin's face, she didn't either.   
  
"Mr Mellark." Latier's voice is as mild as ever, but there is a burning light in his eyes that I know is mirrored in my own. "I will have to ask you to moderate your language in this courtroom."  
  
"Of course." Peeta is as mild as he is, and just as controlled, but his face is still hard and unforgiving. "I apologise for my intemperate language."   
  
He apologises for nothing else.   
  
This is the moment. If I don't say it now, I will never get another chance. So I rise from my seat, walking over to stand in front of Coin. A couple of her guards move to stop me, but a soft growl fills the courtroom and they hesitate.   
  
When her eyes meet mine, they are cold and just a little uncertain now.  
  
"Your man, Carr, he was willing to destroy District Twelve for not obeying you. Don't try to deny it. He'd already written a recommendation, hadn't he? To make an example of us by destroying us." I let the loathing drip from my voice. "So what, exactly, makes you any better than Snow? Because that's what he would have done."   
  
I gesture behind me, to the Peacekeepers sitting in a row. "Are they some kind of threat to you? Ten men, a few families? Do you seriously think that District Twelve, with its seven thousand people, is going to lead a revolution? Of course we're not! We're so small and weak that you and Snow both almost forgot we were there! But we didn't _obey_ you. We might actually give someone the idea that all that stuff about us being free now was actually _true_!"   
  
She hates me. Oh, if looks could kill I'd be bleeding on the floor right now. "I am not Snow," she says, quiet and grim. I see her eyes flick to her guards, and I know she'd love to have me dragged back to my cell. But there are too many people watching, too many witnesses for her to risk proving me right. "I am sorry for what District Twelve has suffered - "  
  
"No. No, you're not. You sat there and you listened to all of it, I _watche_ d you." I feel as if I am screaming, but what comes out is a burning rasp of pure loathing. "You sat there and listened when we told you about bombs landing on the school full of children. You heard Theoph talk about his daughter dying, about the babies who died this winter. You heard me talk about Haymitch, who Carr murdered by stopping his stipend. Haymitch, who _helped_ you. And you couldn't even pretend you cared." I point to Corwin, his face pale and set. "Corwin's daughter died this winter too. She was only a few months old. She got sick and she died because her mother was so starved she couldn't produce milk any more. Have you ever seen a baby starve, Coin? They don't cry any more, after a while. They just lie there, getting weaker and weaker, until they slip away."   
  
Corwin buries his face in his hands. I am sorry for hurting him, but I want everyone to see what I saw in this room today. "Pretend you care, Coin. Shed a tear for just one dead child of all the dead children in Twelve. Pretend to be just a little more human than Snow was, just for a minute."   
  
She stares at me, frozen with rage. It's strange how clearly I can read her, in this moment. She can hold herself back from ordering me shot, from doing anything that will make her look even more like Snow, but it's taking all she's got. It's not in her to pretend to mourn for people who mean less than nothing to her.   
  
She is ice and I am fire, and I lash at her with the words that are coming so easily now. "You can't do it, can you? Would you care about dead children in Eleven? Ten? Five? Two? _Did you ever_?" I step back, shaking my head. "You would have done it, wouldn't you? Made an example of us. Made sure that nobody ever disobeyed you. You know what the difference is between you and Snow?" I lean forward, lowering my voice. It doesn't matter. I know everyone can hear in that silent room. "Snow actually did care about dead children. If too many of us died, the Hunger Games might lose its effectiveness. He cared just enough to keep us alive to be slaughtered for the viewing pleasure of the Capitol, and _that's still more than you_."   
  
" _That is enough_!" Coin is on her feet. "If the judges will not silence you - "  
  
"Well," Latier says slowly, and he sounds almost... smug. "Mr Mellark has raised a valid point, I am afraid, President Coin. For that reason, I believe this court must temporarily suspend its deliberations. I do not believe that Administrator Carr can be held accountable for criminal negligence in administering a district that he did not, in fact, have any legal right to administer." He rubs his chin. "Under those circumstances... fraud, perhaps?"   
  
She rounds on him. "You cannot seriously be considering this ridiculous claim that District Twelve is no longer a part of Panem!"  
  
"Well, actually, I can," Latier says serenely. "Mr Mellark is quite right. District Twelve's rebellion against the Capitol was separate and distinct from the greater rebellion. At no time were they offered assistance by the rebellion, nor did they give consent to be governed by the new regime. They were not conquered, as District Two was. They did not surrender. They did not voluntarily ally themselves with District Thirteen. So upon what grounds, precisely, does the Council claim authority over it?"   
  
Latier is possibly the only person in the world who Coin hates more than me in this moment. "The Council rules Panem," she hisses. "District Twelve is part of Panem."   
  
"For now." It's Lyme who speaks, the Victor for District Two, now on her feet. "For now."   
  
Slowly, the other Victors rise as well. They don't say anything. They don't need to.   
  
Peeta and I may have started another civil war.  
  
As the frozen crowd finally breaks into pandemonium, I wonder how Coin is going to have us executed.   
  



	8. The Hard Way

I am seventeen when I see my second rebellion.  
  
From the courtroom we are hustled into yet another room, this one with a long table running down its center. None of the New Peacekeepers seem to know what to do. Aside from a few loyalists gathered around Coin, they seem to settle on standing around the walls and waiting to see what happens.   
  
At one end of the table, Coin has gathered more bland people around her. Her government, one assumes. She sits at the head of the table, very upright, with her hands folded in front of her.   
  
At the other end, those of us from Twelve gather protectively around Peeta. Most of the Victors join us there, and Johanna surprises me by squeezing my shoulder. "That was my kind of stupid, kid," she murmurs into my ear. "Good for you."  
  
Harry  sighs and grips my hand for a moment. "Could you at least _try_ not to make it any harder for me to keep my word to your mother?" he asks plaintively, but I can tell he agrees with Johanna.   
  
Gale is shaking his head and grinning ruefully at Peeta. "You couldn't have warned us you were sitting on that?"  
  
Peeta shrugs. "I wasn't going to use it," he admits a little sheepishly. "It seemed like... kind of a last resort. But then when that woman used the word, when I saw how she wanted things to go - I got so angry," he adds, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "I saw you watching Coin, so I watched too, and she was just... she didn't feel anything. Not so much as a second of human compassion."  
  
"You have to be human for that." Finnick is passing a length of rope through his hands, tying and untying knots in the same way that my mother rolls bandages or Prim strokes Buttercup - as if it's a soothing habit that no longer requires even a glance to see if it's going right.   
  
He must be worried about Annie and Mags. He is their protector, all they have, and I look down when he looks at me. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this."   
  
"Don't be." He tips my chin up with gentle fingers, making me look at him. "I'm going to be a father too," he says, laying his other hand on Corwin's shoulder. "This is my fight."   
  
"And mine," Cecelia says softly, a hand resting on her belly as if she's remembering the babies she's carried.   
  
"And mine," Harry says softly, his eyes shadowed. I feel Johanna tense, and Harry shrugs. "Dell and Tina," he tells her quietly. "And the others. Someone has to speak for them."   
  
She goes over to him, putting an arm around his broad back, and he smiles down at her wistfully.   
  
The door to the room opens again, and four people come in. General Paylor, to my surprise, joins the New Peacekeepers standing against the walls rather than going to Coin. But perhaps she feels she needs to keep an eye on us. The woman from the trial - I'm still not clear on who was _on_ trial, but I'm pretty sure it's us now - and a man I recognize as the best-known of Capitol defectors, Plutarch Heavensbee, both go to stand beside Coin.   
  
The fourth, Beetee Latier, walks to the middle of the table and looks from one side to the other, smiling slightly. "Quite a can of worms you've opened, Mr Mellark," he says, as mild as ever. "Tell me, what put that particular idea into your head?"   
  
Peeta smiles slightly at him. "My mother," he admits.  
  
Everyone looks at him. " _Her_?" I asked, a little appalled by the idea of his mother giving him anything but his weekly pay.   
  
Peeta nods. "I left home when I was fifteen," he explains. "My mother was the violent type, and it got worse after I lost my foot. I honestly think she would have killed me if Katniss and her family hadn't offered me a home." He smiles at me warmly. "I was just thinking about how much it reminded me of her, the way the New Peacekeepers and the officials were acting. She reacted to defiance the same way." He looks down at his hands, shrugging. "I thought it was a shame there was no other house District Twelve could move to, to get away... and then it occurred to me to wonder why we didn't. Nobody in Twelve agreed to any of this."  
  
"Haymitch Abernathy - " Coin begins.  
  
"-is dead," Latier says quietly, "And here is an interesting thing, President Coin. Carr does not have the authority to stop the payment of a Victor's stipend. We were very insistent on that, as I recall. We earned it.. and many of us, like Haymitch or Annie or Mags, are unable to provide for ourselves." He steeples his fingers in front of him. " _Nobody_ has the authority to stop the payment of a Victor's stipend. Not even you. And yet someone did so. Someone not Carr. Someone high enough to access the Victor's funds. Believe me, I will find out who that was."   
  
For all that he's mild and calm, it's a threat and everyone at this table knows it.   
  
"Haymitch was never empowered to make agreements on behalf of his district," Cecelia says quietly, and once again I'm reminded that this gentle, motherly woman is a Victor. "And any... offers he may have suggested are now void, since he is dead."   
  
Coin either cut off Haymitch's stipend herself, or she knew it was being done. Just for one second the knowledge that she's screwed up shows on her face. Then, suddenly, she drops the act. "Is there any particular reason," she says quite calmly, "why I shouldn't have this treasonous little group simply executed on the spot?"  
  
There is a moment's silence, since the word 'executed' tends to get people's attention. I try not to let my sudden fear show. For all I hated the new government, I suppose I believed that they wouldn't indulge in wholesale executions. Even Snow shied from that, after all. I see Heavensbee shift very slightly away from Coin, looking unsettled.  
  
"Ah. I see." It's Harry. He straightens up, squaring his shoulders, and I see the other Victors move to stand behind him. "We're done pretending to be civilised. then. Well, I suppose that will save some time."   
  
"I think so." Coin smiles slightly. "Harry, you've always been one of the more reasonable of the Victors. Perhaps, if you are willing to take steps to smooth this over..."  
  
"No," he says calmly. "No, I don't think so. I don't want you to think we're not grateful, President Coin. You've done excellent work in the rebuilding. Frankly, we were a little out of our depth just at first." He smiles, and it's not cold the way hers is, just a little sad. "But I'm afraid we'll have to dispense with your services after this. It's a pity - we were really hoping you'd last a little longer."   
  
Coin stares at him, as bewildered as I am. "What? I am President of Panem - "  
  
"Yes, yes, I know." Harry waves a hand. "But I'm afraid Panem no longer requires a president. Of course your hard work is appreciated, and we'll arrange a nice retirement package. Maybe a small residence somewhere."  
  
"Are you insane?" Coin seems actually concerned about it. "You can't - "  
  
Harry moves the length of the table in three long strides, slamming his hands down on it and leaning forward. Coin, for all her self-control, leans back just a little. The bland people around her seem paralysed - except for one man, who frowns and puts a hand on his weapon.  "Let me make something very clear to you, Alma Coin," Harry says, and his voice is level and pleasant despite his obvious anger. "You made me the public leader of your rebellion, you remember? You sent me out into battle and all the districts followed my lead. I was their Avalanche, their unstoppable force, and I _was_ unstoppable. I led them to victory. And when they remember the revolution, they remember _me_. Most of them couldn't pick you out of a crowd." He leans forward. I can't see his face, but I can see hers. "I was only nineteen, of course," he says gently. "I wasn't able to take over running a whole country, not then. But I'm older now. And while I am grateful for your stewardship, _I_ am the head of the revolution, not you. And I will be taking my place now." He glances at the man whose hand is still on his weapon. "Don't worry, Boggs," he says quite pleasantly. "We have no intention of harming our former president... so long as she returns quietly to her District, with our thanks."  
  
Coin is so pale that I think it's only her rage that is keeping her from fainting. "Do you seriously think - "  
  
"Well, yes, actually, I do." Harry straightens up, glancing back at his fellow Victors. "Ladies, gentlemen, are there any of your districts who will not support the graceful retirement of our interim President in favour of a new Senate? I trust you've all been disseminating the necessary information?"   
  
"I think we're ready," Rhapsody says thoughtfully. "Two?"  
  
Lyme shrugs, gesturing at our Peacekeepers, huddled in a knot and looking very nervous. "After this? Yes, I think so. Two will go with Twelve, wherever that is."   
  
Harry looks at us. "And you?" he asks quietly. "Will Twelve support the creation of a new Senate, with elected representatives from each district serving to rule the whole of Panem?"  
  
I don't know how to answer. I am suddenly afraid to speak for my district - I've already gotten it into so much trouble. I'm not sure what a 'Senate' is either.  
  
But Gale nods, taking a step forward. "Twelve has no wish to separate itself from the rest of Panem," he says gravely. "Only to treated fairly and with respect. Our only act of rebellion was wanting to protect our own people." The rest of us nod in agreement.   
  
"Very good." Harry turns back to Coin. "I won't detain you any longer. I'm sure you have a great deal to do, winding up your affairs and so forth."   
  
She stands, her fists clenched so tightly that I can see her knuckes whiten from the other end of the table. "You cannot dismiss me," she hisses. "I will - "  
  
"You will acknowledge reality," Harry says calmly. "You will acknowledge that the other Districts outnumber yours over three hundred to one, even after Snow's depredations. You will acknowledge that those of us who have been inside District Thirteen are quite familiar with your defenses." He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. "Beetee, you did deal with the nuclear weapons, didn't you?"  
  
Latier smiles serenely. "Oh, yes. Years ago. I'm the only one who can detonate them now." Coin's jaw actually drops, and Latier shrugs. "I admit that it surprised me. Even after you knew what I'd done to the Capitol's networks, you allowed me access to yours. But I didn't waste the opportunity."   
  
"Understand me," Harry says, and I can hear the pleasantness fading from his voice. "District Thirteen still has much to offer Panem... but it no longer has anything to threaten it with. We are truly grateful for your aid in the rebellion, but that gratitude does not extend to allowing you to become a tyrant in Snow's place."   
  
The man called Boggs looks over at General Paylor. "I take it that they have your support in this?" he says quietly, and he sounds... hurt? "How long has this been going on, Edie?"  
  
She shrugs. "No idea," she says, meeting his eyes squarely. "This is the first I've heard. But yes, they have my support. You know I've had my reservations about plenty of Coin's policies, Joseph... and you know we were promised a republic. Representation. And yet she's been putting us off with vague promises for years."   
  
Boggs nods slowly, and he turns back to Harry. "How long?" he asks again.  
  
"Since the war ended," Harry says quietly. "I mean, my part did. Johanna warned me not to trust Coin, that she was playing her own game."   
  
Johanna nods, and to my surprise she glances at me and grins. "We cold, suspicious bitches know our own," she says, as much to me as to anyone else. "Admit it, you smelled heartless on her as fast as I did."   
  
I nod, returning her grin. "I knew as soon as I met you that we were alike, too."  
  
"See?" Johanna nods. "It was just us, at first, the Sevens, or we thought it was. But after a while we noticed that the other Victors were doing their own nosing around."   
  
"It's like Catch said, back in the courtroom. Nobody in the districts really trusts anyone else - and we Victors are paranoid by nature," Seeder says, folding her hands in front of her. "We learn to expect betrayal, or we don't survive the Arena. If you had kept your word, President Coin, if you had even been somewhat better than Snow, you probably never would have known about it. They were only ever contingency plans. Just in case."  
  
"And now just in case has become necessity." Harry shrugs, looking at Coin again. She is standing there, white with fury, but she doesn't seem to be able to find anything to say. "President Coin," he says quietly. "We can still end this peacefully. I will explain that Carr is simply a product of his District, as are we all - that the terrible restrictions necessary to survive there make it hard for him to understand the different needs of life on the surface. He has no experience of weather - how could he know what winter in the mountains was like? You will apologise, gracefully. We will announce the dissolution of the interim government and the election of a new Senate, so that all the districts will have a voice in the Capitol, so that this tragedy will never be repeated."  
  
"Reaping Day."  
  
Everyone turns to look at Peeta, who is looking thoughtful. "Reaping Day," he says again. "It's only a few weeks away. Everyone is used to gathering then, they'll know what to do. Have them gather, not to see two children dragged away to die, but to choose the people they'll send to the Capitol to make sure it never happens again."  
  
Cecelia nods. "The symbolism is good," she says thoughtfully. "One male, one female? Two Senators from each district would be about right."  
  
"And it will be you," Coin says tightly. "The Victors."  
  
"Of course it will, at least at first," Harry says mildly. "And I imagine that District Thirteen will choose you. We won't even object. Our interim President joins the Senate, all very friendly and pleasant... I'm sure that will go a long way toward defusing any lingering resentment towards District Thirteen."  
  
Coin does't slump, but I can see from the way she shifts her weight that she's become aware of how thoroughly she's been cornered. "And if I don't, District Thirteen will suffer."  
  
"Well, yes." Harry's voice is implacable. "If you fight this, Coin, if you make trouble, then District Thirteen will receive the same treatment that District Twelve has. You will be cut off, left to fend for yourselves. And since you no longer have a viable population, I imagine that you won't last more than a couple of generations - especially since we aren't so heartless as to prevent its innocent citizens from renouncing their allegiance to Thirteen and moving elsewhere."   
  
"Then we have no choice," Boggs says quietly. He draws his weapon, and turns to offer it to Paylor, handle first.   
  
She shakes her head. "Joseph, we _are_ grateful for all that Thirteen... and you... have done." I realize with a shock that there's something between these two - the way she's looking at him is a dead giveaway. "All we want is equality between the districts... all the districts. We didn't fight for our freedom so Thirteen could become the new Capitol."   
  
"No," he says quietly, and there's something in the way he looks at Coin that seems... disappointed. "As it happens, neither did I."   
  
Coin glares at him, but some of the ice has gone out of her. I think it's sinking in that she's far out on a limb that's cracking under her feet - and the Victors are standing behind her with saws.   
  
"Good." Harry nods. "Now. I think a public statement is called for - before anyone in the districts starts wondering if Coin has had us all executed. Fortunately, all the news services were here for the trial, so we won't have to hunt any of them down."  
  
I expect to merely be shown to the cameras as alive and whole, then allowed to slip away while Harry and Coin announce the dissolution of the suddenly 'interim' government.  
  
To my surprise, those of us from Twelve appear to be almost more interesting to the gathered cameras than the coming election. Once the official statements have been made, we are beseiged.  At first they focus on Peeta and I, wanting to know why we live together. They ask hopeful questions about romance, but seem willing to accept the story - told touchingly by Peeta and awkwardly by me - of what really happened. Of him saving Prim, of us saving him, of making a home and a family with Haymitch, who had no-one else. I suppose it's a nice story, but it's too personal for me to be comfortable with telling it.   
  
Then they ask about the fighting in District Twelve. Peeta wriggles out of that one almost immediately, explaining that he - being a baker - was with those organising our supplies. Sae gets a word in there, and I find out of the the first time that Peeta and Sae worked together then. That he was the one grinding sacks of stored meal and baking the flat, unleavened rounds of bread handed out to all the fighters, that could be loaded with stew or beans or carried out to eat on guard duty.   
  
We've never talked about the war, I realize. Only the very last part, with the bombing. I never asked him what he did before that.  
  
But then they turn to me. I tell them that I was fourteen, that I'd never fought anyone before, but that my father had taught me to use a bow to hunt. I am asked what it was like, the first time, and when I admit that I threw up I get sympathetic smiles as well as chuckles.   
  
Then I have an idea, and smile brightly at the latest questioner. "But you should ask Gale and Darius," I tell her, turning to them. "I was so young... I mostly stood guard or something, because I could climb trees. Gale and Darius did _real_ fighting."   
  
And then they're away. I feel bad for making Gale into a target at first, until I realise that he's actually enjoying himself. He talks about organising raids on supplies, about seeding the woods and the roads with traps and snares, about desperate struggles with better-armed men. Perhaps it's Darius's presence beside him, what we've learned about District Two, but he curbs his usual tendency to suggest that they deserved everything they got. Darius certainly stresses the fact that the District Twelve fighters were primarily armed with sticks, stones and a few bows until they were able to capture a few weapons from fallen foes. He talks about how, growing up in District Two, he was always taught to admire a warrior's courage and strength. About how even the men who we fought seemed to admire our courage and resourcefulness, that the enemies were able to respect one another. I don't know if it's true, but it sounds good.   
  
It doesn't hurt, I suspect, that Darius and Gale are both handsome enough, both possessed of a certain charm. Certainly a couple of the younger women asking questions seem quite taken with them. I'm just relieved that they're not making me talk any more.   
  
By the time we're allowed to go back to the tower, we're all more or less limp with exhaustion. Peeta, who had to stand for far too long on his crutches, collapses into a chair with such obvious relief that Lavinia comes over, her hands moving in the gestures I don't understand and her pale face creased with concern.   
  
"She wants to know what's wrong," Lyme says quietly. I hadn't noticed her in the lift, but when I look around she's the only Victor still with us. "He's all right... I'm sorry, I don't know your name - "  
  
"Lavinia," Peeta says, smiling up at Lavinia wearily. "I'm all right. Just... a lot of standing, on only one leg."   
  
She nods sympathetically, gesturing again and hurrying away. "She says you need to eat. She's right, it's well past noon." Lyme looks up at the table. "Here, two of you help me move that."  
  
Peeta protests in vain. Lyme, Gale, Stoker and Corwin move the table and the chairs over to him, pushing the large couches out of the way. "Oh, don't fuss. We can see the TV from here, that's why," Lyme tells him sternly. "Don't you want to see yourself on TV?"  
  
Peeta looks as nervous as I feel. "Not really." But he lets me brace him as he swings himself from low, soft chair to dining chair as Lavinia and two other Avoxes begin bringing in food.   
  
Lyme laughs. "You'll get used to it," she says kindly. "Everyone's nervous the first time, but I was watching. You did fine." She turns on the TV.  
  
After an hour, I retreat to the room I share with Sae and take refuge in the bathroom. I don't mind the replays of my passionate attack on Coin so much - I'm actually a little proud of how eloquent I managed to be then. But the interviews later! I'm so awkward and stiff - especially since I'm sandwiched between Peeta, all friendly charm, and Gale with an intense certainty somehow magnified by the cameras.   
  
Some time later, when I'm starting to think maybe I should get out of the shower before my whole body prunes up, the door opens. I yelp, thanking providence that the glass door of the shower has steamed up and I'm not entirely on display. "Hey!"  
  
"Your boyfriends wanted me to check and make sure you didn't fall in," Sae says, and I don't have to be able to see her to tell she's smirking. "And the Avoxes brought up a thing they call a dessert trolley."  
  
"They're not my...." I trail off. "A dessert trolley? Is that a whole trolley full of - " That's hard for me to imagine, but I find that I'm willing to make the attempt.   
  
"It's more of a small cart. Cakes, puddings, all sorts of things. You can stay in here if you want to, but we're not saving you any."   
  
Five minutes later, dressed and still braiding my hair, I hurry out to find that Sae wasn't exaggerating. There are cakes and pies and things I can't even name. Peeta has a lump of brown and white jelly at his elbow that he is clearly guarding, and when he sees me he holds it up as if it's a prize. "Katniss, come and try this!"   
  
I hesitate. It doesn't look nearly as appealing as the frosted cakes or sugar-sprinkled pies. "Well - "  
  
He grins at me. "Come on, trust me. Just take a bite."  
  
I do.  
  
When he tries to take the plate back, I hit him with my spoon.   
  
The brown and white thing with its brown sauce is called 'creme caramel' according to Lyme, who is helping us navigate the unfamiliar dishes. Only when the sweet cream and tang of burnt sugar are a happy memory do I investigate further, working my way through lime and strawberry-flavoured creams, apple pie, a blazingly green jelly and three of the tiny cakes before finishing with fresh fruit dipped in melted chocolate.  
  
I feel sick for hours afterwards but it's worth it. I only wish Prim could have shared the feast.  
  
Peeta is just as green as I am, for all that he kept stopping to examine the pretty goodies before eating them, and Gale is worse. Lavinia, smiling, settles us on a couch with unsweetened mint tea and I find that watching myself on the TV is, at the very least, preferable to moving while I feel so queasy.   
  
At least until a particularly arch commentator with long mauve eyelashes begins coyly speculating about my relationship with 'the dashing hero of the rebellion and the charming baker'. Then I find I'm not feeling too sick to move after all.    
  
I'm curled up on the bed reading a book I found in the room - it's a fairy-tale of some sort, and I try not to wonder what child Tribute read it on the days before his or her death - when someone knocks on the door. "Katniss?" Gale calls quietly. "Can I come in?"  
  
I really want to say no, but it seems childish. "Sure. Come in."   
  
He comes in, smiling the smile I know so well, and sits on the end of the bed. "Don't worry," he says quietly. "I'm not here to try to... I don't know. Try to talk you into anything." He looks down at his hands, fingers laced together. "I feel really stupid," he admits quietly.   
  
"Why?" I ask cautiously. I'm bad at this. I _know_ I'm bad at this. I'm not even going to try to guess which bit of stupidity he's sorry for.   
  
"For the way I behaved on the train," he says quietly. "It was a lousy thing to say, Katniss, I know that." He pauses, cocking an eyebrow. "Not completely untrue," he adds, "but lousy."   
  
I glare at him. "I thought I told you - "  
  
"Not the way I said it." He sighs. "Katniss... ever since I met you you've had... I don't know, a wall up. You don't want to let anyone close. It took me years to even get you to where we could be friends. The only thing that seems to get through it is seeing someone hurting. There's a soft heart under that hard shell." He taps my foot gently. "You can't blame me for being jealous. I had to work so hard at getting you to even talk to me, and you just... you took them in so fast. They meant so much to you."   
  
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. I remember those years Gale spent winning me over, how wary I was of him at first. But Peeta went from almost stranger to family in less than six months, Haymitch in even less time. From Gale's point of view - I am a little proud of myself for realizing this - it might seem unfair.   
  
I never told Gale about the bread.  
  
"I met Peeta before I met you," I tell him quietly. "I mean... not met, exactly. But he helped me before you did."   
  
He stares at me, puzzled. "When?"  
  
I tell him. It sounds halting and awkward when I try to put it into words, my absolute despair and that act of pure compassion on the part of a boy who had never even spoken to me. "It gave me hope," I say, looking down at the book I am turning over and over in my hands. "And the next day there was a dandelion, and... I can't explain. But you never would have met me in the woods if it wasn't for Peeta. We never talked afterward. I didn't know how to start. You know how I am," I add, glancing up at him and risking a small smile. "I'm not good at talking."  
  
He laughs, though there's an unhappy edge to it. "Yeah, I know. People stuff isn't your strength, Catnip."   
  
"No. But I never forgot. And when he saved Prim again..." I shrug. "I needed someone, Gale. Taking care of Mom and Prim by myself was so hard. And he'd saved Prim twice, even though it hurt him both times. I trusted him with her, after that. I knew he'd keep her safe. It wasn't because he needed me," I finish in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "It was because I needed him. You don't know... your mother's always been there. You never had to take care of them by yourself. It was so hard, Gale."   
  
"I know." His voice catches a little. "I tried to... but it wasn't enough, was it?"  
  
"You had five mouths to feed, Gale. You couldn't take on my family too." I sigh. "I don't... I don't feel the same way about Peeta that he does about me," I say slowly. I told Peeta the truth - it seems fair to tell it to Gale too. "But I don't feel that way about you either. I never... until now, I never _thought_ about any of that. About loving someone." I blush just saying the word, actually. "I never wanted children, so it seemed... sort of pointless. I mean, if you get married they're bound to happen, and I never really wanted to get married either, so..."  
  
"I remember you saying that." Gale smiles crookedly at me. "I guess I always thought you'd change your mind. When you were older, and you didn't have Prim to take care of any more."   
  
I shake my head mutely. I can't tell him, I can't tell _anyone_ , how much that idea still makes my skin crawl. Having someone not only looking at me naked, but touching me, doing _that_... I know I'm not supposed to feel that way, but I do. I've never wanted it. And the idea of children...   
  
That doesn't horrify me as much as it once did. The process still makes me squeamish, I wasn't exaggerating even slightly when I talked about that at breakfast. Having something _wriggle around_ inside you, not to mention the process of birthing... ugh. But I am beginning to hope that my children would be safe, if they existed. If Harry is going to take over running Panem, they would be safe. He isn't perfect, I know that because I know well that nobody is. But I don't think he would ever willingly act to harm children. He wouldn't let them starve, or die for the amusement of the wealthy and important. They would have as good a chance at living as anyone does.   
  
But getting them - no. Even Peeta, even Gale, who I trust as I trust no-one else, don't make me want to do that. It might, perhaps, be endurable with one of them, but... no. I will credit them with not wanting mere endurance.   
  
He reaches out to touch my cheek, unknowingly mirroring Peeta's touch that day on the train. It feels different, though it's hard to explain how. I'm not indifferent to his touch, but it's as different from Peeta's as they are from each other. "Then I guess I need to accept that," he says softly. "You don't think there's any chance you'll change your mind?"   
  
I hesitate, tempted to lie. But this time I don't give in to the fear of change that has threatened to consume me. "I don't know. I've had less than a week to think about this, and I have to admit that whether or not we were going to survive or be tortured was taking up more of my brain than whether I might want a boyfriend one day."  
  
He laughs at that, a genuine laugh. "Yeah, me too. Okay, Catnip. Time to think about it is... that's fair. For now... friends?"   
  
"Friends." That much, at least, I am sure of.  
  
He doesn't hug me the way Peeta did, but he clasps my hand gently. "So... Lyme said that if we want to, we can go down to the Victor's training area and try out some of those metal bows they used to have in the Arena sometimes."  
  
Nothing could have made me lose interest in my nausea faster. "Really? Now?"   
  
He chuckles. "Yeah, now. Come on."   
  
So we work off the last of the dessert - and my nervousness at the thought of maybe having to do more interviews - with the most beautiful bows either of us have ever seen. The training area has a choice of targets. Man-shaped, animal-shaped... my favourites are the silly-looking stuffed toy birds that are launched out of a sort of cannon when you pull a lever. I shoot so many that eventually the Avox  who runs the area makes me stop, telling me with gestures that I have put holes in all the birds he has, and they'll need to be sewed up before I can shoot them again. When he sees that I feel bad, he shows me how many old rents there are in some of them, all neatly stitched up.   
  
When we go to leave, he stops me and hands me a knife. It's a beautiful thing, light and perfectly balanced, with a blade as long as my palm and a hilt just the right size for my hand. It even has a sheath of sturdy leather. "Why?" I ask, puzzled.   
  
He hesitates, then picks up a bottle that held water and pretends to sway drunkenly. Then he touches his chest over his heart, looking sad.   
  
My throat tightens. "Because of Haymitch?"   
  
He nods, closing my hands around the knife.   
  
I lie awake that night, thinking about it. The Victors are one thing - they'd known Haymitch for years, most of them. But the Avox whose name I don't know could never have spoken to Haymitch.  They weren't allowed to even acknowledge people except to take orders, we were told. And yet he cared about Haymitch for some reason.  
  
Because of that, I am still awake to hear something outside the room. It's a quiet, shuffling step - someone trying to be quiet who isn't good at it.   
  
And that noise has no place here.  
  
The Avoxes move silently.   
  
Gale and I are just as quiet.  
  
The Peacekeepers have learned through necessity to be almost as good as we are. Even Stoker, big as he is, could move silently on the smooth floors here.   
  
Peeta walks with a tap and drag of crutches, his single foot heavy because he cannot balance his weight on the other.   
  
The only person on this floor who should shuffle is Sae, and Sae is sleeping beside me.   
  
So who is outside my door?   
  
I unsheath the knife, moving over to the door as silently as I can and pressing my ear against it. It's not just one. I hear the faint whisper that is several people breathing and moving quietly.   
  
"Who the hell are you?" Gale says, and then I hear a soft grunt. I yank the door open, knife out and ready.   
  
Gale's bow and Jeb's spear were taken away with Sae's ladle, and have not yet been returned. None of the Peacekeepers even had weapons. We are supposed to be unarmed and helpless, weakened by long hunger.  
  
In short, we are in the same condition that we were when we fought the Peacekeepers for our homes.   
  
The men in the dim hallway are wearing body armour, but that doesn't help them. We're used to fighting men in armour. Gale is wielding what must have been the first thing to hand - a heavy ceramic vase. He smashes it into the exposed face of the first man, yanking his gun out of his hand while he screams and staggers. Another doesn't notice me coming and gets his throat slit from behind. Like the Peacekeepers he has a neckpiece on, but we all learned the trick of jerking a man's chin up to open just a little gap for a knife to slip through.   
  
The third is turning on me when a length of fine, seasoned ash slams into his head. Peeta is not usually a fighter, but he's strong and his crutches are tools he uses very, very well. He pivots on the other crutch, whipping the other one back to catch the man across the face as he staggers. Bone crunches, and he goes down.   
  
Lights go on as the other doors open, and to my surprise I realize that the shadowy men are wearing Peacekeeper armour and carrying Peacekeeper weapons. I can't guess why, but it's handy for us - we're very familiar with the vulnerabilities of the one and the use of the other.   
  
It's only then that they start actually firing, but it's too late for them. I cut another throat - I hate doing it, but I learned to kill to keep myself alive long ago - and then drop to hamstring another man, driving my knife into the seam of his armour behind the knee. Gale shoots two more. Stoker and Festus are both down and bleeding, but there's nothing I can do about that now. Peeta yelps and falls over when a shot grazes his arm, but it's not serious, and from the ground he slams the iron-clad tip of his crutch into the same spot I just jammed my knife into, knocking his man flat. Sae, eeling out from behind me, slams her ladle into his face until he is still.   
  
Like most fights, it only lasts about a minute. When we're done, seven of our attackers are dead and three are unconscious.   
  
Stoker, too, is dead. Festus is bleeding messily but can be patched up and will likely survive if we can get help for him soon. When we move out into the living area to see if there are any more, we find Lavinia sprawled on the floor. Peeta is the one to examine her, after tying up Festus's wounds - he says she is still alive, but I can see that he's worried when he examines the side of her head.   
  
"We need to check the other levels," Gale says grimly. "Arm up, everyone. If this is Coin's doing, she'll go for the Victors too.   
  
I look at Peeta, who is struggling to his feet again. "Shouldn't you - "  
  
"Sae can stay with Festus. No offense, but I know more about injuries than any of you... how to treat them, anyway." He sets his jaw stubbornly. "I'm coming." He refuses a gun, pointing out that he doesn't know how to use one anyway, so I give him my knife.   
  
On Eleven, there are only two of them, and they are still trying to get through Seeder's locked door. Gale and Darius bring them down, and politely offer Seeder -  who bursts out of her room stark naked and clutching a sickle-like blade as long as my arm - her choice of their guns. She tells us that Ten will be empty - the Victor from there left this evening to begin organizing in her district.   
  
We are too late for Nine - the man there has already been shot.   
  
"We need to split up," Gale says grimly. "No time."   
  
Peeta, Julius, Darius, Corwin, Theoph and I head for Four, remembering Annie's pregnancy.   
  
The fight is already joined there. The hysterical screaming must be Annie, though I don't see her or Mags. All I see is Finnick - all of Finnick, do all Victors walk around naked so often? - a trident and net in his hands, facing off against four men with nightsticks and guns.   
  
When he is shot, Annie's screams rise to a pitch that makes my ears hurt.  
  
The four barely manage two shots at us between them, and that only because Peeta doesn't have a gun. He heads for the unconscious Finnick first, and I look for the source of the screaming.   
  
Annie is cowering behind a couch, kneeling beside Mags. The old woman gestures to her leg when she sees me, and from the slight bend in her thigh I assume it's broken. I'm impressed that she's managing to stay silent, but I obey her gesture and kneel beside Annie. "Annie? Annie, it's Katniss." I touch her shoulder cautiously, just in case she hits out in her panic. At least she and Mags are wearing nightgowns - Annie's short and clinging, Mags' thick and long, like the one Lavinia gave me.   
  
Annie flinches away from me, shrieking, but when she turns towards me she seems to see me, because her eyes focus on my face and her screams fade to whimpers. "K-Katniss? Finnick... where's Finnick?"  
  
"Peeta's looking at him," I tell her, hoping it's true.   
  
Annie's face crumples again. "He got sh-shot... I saw it... Oh, Finnick..."   
  
I remember reassuring Finnick that Annie would cope. I remember hoping that she would never have to, not without him, and I feel as if I ill-wished them somehow. And I *did*, I realize, this is all happening because I approached Johanna and started the whole thing...   
  
"Annie!" That's Peeta's voice, surprisingly sharp. "Come out here right now! I need help!"   
  
Annie looks startled, but she slowly levers herself to her feet. "H-help?"  
  
Peeta is kneeling over Finnick, a wad of cloth pressed against Finnick's shoulder. Peeta's undershirt, I assume, since he's no longer wearing one. He looks up at her and gives her a reassuring smile. "Finnick was hit in the shoulder," he explains, businesslike but soothing. He learned that tone from my mother. "I need you to do two things for me, okay? Get me some clean shirts or something I can use to cover the wound, and then you need to call for help. None of us know how, but there has to be some way to get doctors here, right?"  
  
Like any one of a hundred hysterical relatives, Annie responds to a healer's calm assurance. My mother always tries to find something for them to do, even if it's just to keep them busy. In moments, Annie has run to the bedroom and come back with a handful of shirts. "Here. These are clean. Is he... is he going to die?"  
  
Peeta smiles up at her, and even I'm comforted by the calm assurance in his face. "I've seen worse. I've *had* worse," he adds, gesturing to the folded-over pant-leg covering his stump. "And I survived that with nothing but an apothecary to help. He'll be fine."   
  
Annie relaxes visibly. "I'll call someone." A moment later, though, she's back. "I can't call outside the building," she says unhappily. Then she smiles suddenly. "But this still works!" She proudly holds up her arm, with a strange, thick bracelet on it. "Finnick got it for me. It's in case anything goes wrong with the baby when he's not there. All I have to do is push the button, he said, and a medical team will come right away to help me. So I pushed it, and now it's flashing."  
  
There is indeed a flashing light on the bracelet next to the blue button. I wonder if Finnick actually thought she'd need it, or if he was just trying to reassure her - either way, thank goodness he did.   
  
We move on to Three, leaving Peeta to take care of Finnick and Mags, with Annie's nervous but surprisingly steady help. Three doesn't need any help - apparently Beetee had booby-trapped the entire floor long before. He and a woman he introduces as Wiress are sitting calmly amid the pieces of at least five dismembered bodies. They say that they're breaking through the communications block, and Beetee assures us that help will be on the way directly. I tell him about Annie's bracelet, and he says it should be working just as she said it would. The communications block won't affect a radio device, apparently, though I have no idea what most of what he says actually means.   
  
Lyme and Flavia, on Two, are injured but mobile, having taken down five attackers with a crossbow and whatever blunt instruments came to hand. They're not wearing clothes either. I have seen more naked people in the last ten minutes than in most of my life.  
  
Rhapsody and Gloss, on One, are both dead, along with the Avox from their floor. Cashmere and Jet are alive, but not exactly pleased to see us. I can hardly blame them - we *did* cause this, however accidentally.   
  
When we head back up to check on Peeta and Annie, we meet Harry and Johanna coming out of another elevator. They have their axes, of course - and, I am very pleased to notice, pyjamas. "Have you seen Annie?" Harry asks, before he's even all the way out the door. "Are she and Finnick - "  
  
I nod. "Finnick got shot and Mags has a broken leg, I think, but they were both still alive. Annie's okay."   
  
Johanna makes an irritated noise, pushing ahead of us into the main room. "If Finnick's been shot, she's not..." She trails off.   
  
Annie is sitting on the floor, with Finnick's head in her lap. She's stroking his hair with one hand and putting pressure on his wound with the other, and seems quite alert for her. Someone has pushed the couch they were using for cover out of the way, and I can see Peeta smiling down at Mags as he tucks a blanket over her. He doesn't have the same passion for healing that my mother and sister do, but he's good at comforting people.   
  
"...okay," Johanna says, looking baffled. "That's a first. I thought we'd be prying her out from under a bed somewhere."   
  
She doesn't bother to lower her voice, but though Annie looks up she doesn't seem bothered. "I don't have time for that," she says seriously. "I have to take care of Finnick."   
  
Finnick's _face_ is tight and pale with pain, but he manages a little smile as he looks up at her. "Just like you always do," he says softly.   
  
"Yes." She looks down at him with so much love that even I - with no use at all for love - find myself moved by it. And I'm impressed by Annie. She _didn't_ react the way my mother did. She was terrified, but she managed to pull herself together enough to take care of Finnick. I think it's a good sign for the baby.   
  
Peeta gets himself up onto his crutches again and limps over. "We've checked the residential levels, but not the others, not yet. Gale and the others came by a few minutes ago - they said they were going to go down to the ground floor and see if they could get out to get help. I told them Annie's doctor was coming."   
  
Harry nods. "We should join them." He holds up a card. "This will get me into the secured areas - the kitchens, the Avox's quarters and so on. We need to check on them."   
  
"We'll come with you." It's Darius, who looks very grim. "This was aimed at us."   
  
Johanna raises her eyebrows. "Really? What makes you think - "   
  
Darius holds up his stolen gun. "They're using Peacekeeper issue. Old stuff from before the war. This was meant to hang on us."   
  
It's only then that I really figure it out - intrigue isn't my thing. But now it makes sense. A bunch of Victors killed or injured by men in Peacekeeper uniforms, with those familiar injuries... and while there are a group of recently exonerated Peacekeepers in the building. It would all look as if we _were_ rebels, as if it had all been a big trick...   
  
Harry's eyes change, then, going flat and cold the way they did when he was in the Hunger Games and he found his friends dead. Suddenly I'm very aware of how big he is, and how dangerous.   
  
Peeta nods. "I need to get up to Eight," he says quietly, and when his eyes meet mine I can see how sad he looks. "Cecelia's husband was killed, and Gale said he had to put a tourniquet on the youngest boy's leg."   
  
"Oh, no." Harry's voice is soft, and some of the frightening rage fades. "I should go to her - "   
  
"No offence, but I'm probably going to be more help to her than you are," Peeta says firmly, gesturing at his own leg. "I can at least try to salvage the leg."   
  
Harry hesitates, but then he nods. It surprises me, because friends and family listen to reason a lot less often than they should when someone's hurt or killed, but he responds to Peeta's calm certainty the same way Annie did. "Of course. Thank you."   
  
"You're going?" Annie looks frightened. "But - "  
  
"I have to check on Cecelia's family." Peeta lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I know you can take care of Finnick, and the doctors will come here first because of your bracelet." He looks at the Peacekeepers behind me. "Corwin, will you stay with them?"   
  
Corwin nods, coming over to crouch beside Annie. "I've seen worse," he tells her, after a glance at Finnick's wound. "So, do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl yet? Or would you rather be surprised?"   
  
Annie smiles shyly at him, and they keep talking in low voices as Peeta joins the rest of us at the door. "I'll go up to Eight. It's supposed to be clear now. I assume the rest of you are going down?"   
  
"I'll go with you," I find myself volunteering. Everyone looks at me, and I flush. "I'm not _that_ afraid of blood."   
  
"Yes, you are." Peeta smiles at me. "But thanks. Theoph, will you come too?"  
  
Theoph nods, and I can see that he knows why Peeta asked. With his grey hair and slightly stooped shoulders, he has a grandfatherly look that children respond to, and with a family of his own he has a better idea than I do of how to handle kids.   
  
I'm less help than I'd like to be, although I actually manage to cheer the six-year-old with the bleeding leg up a bit, even if it's involuntary. I accidentally look at his leg and nearly throw up - I hate seeing children hurt, it's always the worst - and Peeta has no trouble at all convincing the kid that he's much braver than I am.   
  
When the rescue teams finally come, an eternity and maybe fifteen minutes later, I have a distraught eight-year-old on my lap, sobbing into my shoulder. She broke down when I told her that I understood, that I'd lost my father when I was young too. I remember Prim, how small and heartbroken she was then, and for once comforting someone comes almost easily to me.   
  
She doesn't understand yet. This happened because of us... because of me. I never intended to start all this when I handed Haymitch's last bequest to Johanna. And yet if I hadn't, all of District Twelve, all those fathers and mothers and children, might have died.   
  
I rock the little girl whose name I don't know, and feel bitterly guilty for the certainty that I wouldn't change what I've done, even though I've broken her heart. I'm sorry she's hurting, but my people, my family, mean more.   
  
  



	9. Home To Roost

It all happens quickly after that. There are executions - Coin and several of her staff. Most of them, actually. The only one of her close advisors who survives is Plutarch Heavensbee. He argues - convincingly - that he would never have gone along with any coup so poorly planned and executed, even if it wasn't doomed to failure. Nor would he risk having to go back to Thirteen when he is almost guaranteed to be elected as a Senator for the Capitol. The new Senate offers him much more than Coin has to give him.   
  
Boggs, her personal guard, actually tried to stop the attempted coup. He is found with a fractured skull, and even Capitol doctors can't guarantee he will ever come out of the coma. I am told that Paylor visits him every day, and I hope that he wakes up for her.   
  
He's not the only one. The same vicious blows to the head felled three of the Avoxes, including Lavinia. One of the others, a cook, dies before he reaches the hospital. Lavinia and the tall Avox who kept Gale away from the sausages are both comatose, though the doctors are hopeful that Lavinia will wake up soon.   
  
Four more Avoxes, including the man from the armoury, are dead. I will never have the chance to ask him why he cared about Haymitch.   
  
Six Victors were killed. The man from Nine, the two from One, one from Seven and the frail, nervous woman from Six who I noticed but never heard speak. It would have been many more if Coin's men hadn't moved early on Twelve. According to the few surviving prisoners, we were expected to be easy targets. We had been starved and imprisoned, we were unarmed... our slaughter should have been quick.   
  
They were, of course, from District Thirteen. No-one else would have been stupid enough not to realize how familiar we were with those conditions, how easy it was for us to kill men dressed as Peacekeepers.   
  
Stoker is the only one from District Twelve to die, though there are some incidental injuries. If we had to lose one of our Peacekeepers, I am glad it isn't one of the ones with children. Cecelia and her children's grief was too much to bear - people I know well would be worse.   
  
I meet Chaff, briefly. I remember him as a man who smiled often, the happy drunk to Haymitch's morose one. He looks grief-stricken when he comes to me, cradling the ugly tankard in a gentle, reverent hand.   
  
"Thank you," he says quietly, and it's easier coming from him. At least I did something for him, preserving Haymitch's legacy. "This... this means a lot. I wish... well. I don't know if you read the letter - "  
  
"Of course not. It was for you."   
  
He smiles a little. "I wouldn't have blamed you for being curious. Anyway, he told me what happened in Twelve. Asked me to act on it, to get the others together to put pressure on Coin. And I would have done it. So don't... don't blame yourself for any of what came after. If it hadn't been you, it would have been me - and I couldn't have protected the others the way you did."   
  
I wonder how he knew it bothered me, even as some of the weight slips off my shoulders. "It had to be done."   
  
"It did. It did." Chaff swallows, looking down at the tankard with eyes full of tears. "He said... at the end of the letter, he told me that you, your family, meant a lot to him. That he'd been happy. He was one of the best friends I ever had. So if I can ever do you or your family a favour, I owe you one." He touches his chest, over his heart. "We take debts seriously in Eleven, too."  
  
I nod, and I am reminded of the old man from Eleven, how well he understood how we thought in Twelve. "I'll remember," I promise him, knowing he means it. If we do need help again, I may even take him up on it. I'd want to pay back a debt like that - if it's even possible to pay back a debt like that.  
  
We attend the funerals, Peeta and I, Gale and Darius. The other Peacekeepers stay in the Tower, standing guard over the survivors. Theoph stays with Cecelia, Corwin with Annie. He talks to her about his wife and son, and gives her advice about babies - she seems to like him, and he escorts her to the hospital where Finnick and Mags are every day.   
  
Peeta and I go to see Finnick once. He is almost in tears as he thanks Peeta for taking care of Annie, for having faith in her and guiding her through the first crisis she's been able to cope with since her Games. He thanks me, too, though I tell him I had almost nothing to do with it.   
  
And in less than a week we are on a train home. Stoker's body is sent home with us - he would want to be buried in District Twelve, or so his friend Festus says.   
  
Our families are gathered at the station to meet us. I see Sae's granddaughter and Gale's brothers before Prim runs up to me to throw herself into my arms. I hug her tightly, and my throat tightens for a minute. I was so afraid, for a while, that I would never see her again. "I missed you, little duck."   
  
"I missed you too. I saw you on TV!" Prim sounds proud. "You got rid of Coin!"   
  
"I... I guess I helped." I kiss the top of her head and turn to hug my mother awkwardly, while Prim hugs Peeta more carefully than she hugged me so she won't knock him off balance.  
  
It is a relief to get home. It isn't the house I grew up in, but in the last year this house has become home. After the luxury of the Capitol, it feels smaller - but cosier, too. This is my place, where I fit. When I am wearing my own clothes again, eating stew from a cheap pottery bowl, I feel like myself again.   
  
My mother tells us that food has already started arriving - not from the Capitol, either, but directly from the other districts. Potatoes and other vegetables that keep well, dried and salted meat or fish, bags of grain. Food to keep us from starvation, sent by other districts who still remember hunger. I wonder if it was the news broadcasts, or if the holders went home and gave up our words to their people already.   
  
It isn't until we are lying side by side in the big bed that Prim looks at me with those big, oddly wise eyes. "Katniss? Can I ask you something?"   
  
"Of course, little duck." I hope it's something easy. What the food was like in the Capitol. What the Victors are like.   
  
"Do you like Peeta?"   
  
Not an easy one. I try to evade it. "Of course I do. He's family, isn't he?"  
  
She rolls on her side to face me, smiling a little. "You know that's not what I mean. The people on the news were talking about it. About you, and Peeta and Gale. Wondering."   
  
I stay on my back, looking up at the ceiling. "They're the best friends I have."   
  
"That's not what I meant either." Her small hand slides into mine. "You don't, huh?"   
  
I squeeze her hand. "Did you know that they did?"   
  
She smiles. "Of course. Everyone does."   
  
"You could have told _me_." It's a brief flicker, but for the first time since our father died I am genuinely angry at Prim.   
  
"If I had, you would have stopped talking to either of them." Prim moves closer, resting her head on my shoulder. "I know you better than anyone, remember? You don't like change. Or feelings. Or things that are complicated. I thought it would be better if you had time to get used to them being around first."  
  
I want to stay mad, but I know she's right. I didn't think about love because I didn't want to. It's too hard. Too complicated. It changes too many things. "I found out on the train. Sae told me."  
  
"Oh. Then I wish I'd told you first," Prim says regretfully. "I bet she teased you."   
  
"She did." I turn my head to kiss Prim's temple. "I wish you'd told me, too. But Finnick was nice," I add, not wanting her to feel bad. "He called them young bantams - roosters, I guess - and said I should take time to figure out what I want."   
  
"He sounds nice." Prim nods against my shoulder. "I want you to be happy," she adds, very quietly. "If it's with Peeta, or Gale, or someone else, that doesn't matter. I just don't want you to be alone."   
  
"I'm not alone." Her words send a chill down my spine. "I have you, and Mom, and Peeta promised that we'd always be family even if I don't feel *that* way."   
  
"You have us now," Prim says, still quietly. "For years, probably. But we're all growing up, Katniss. Things are going to change whether you want them to or not. At least think about it, okay?"  
  
I promise, and she goes to sleep with her cheek still pressed against my shoulder. But I spend a long time staring up at the darkness that hides the ceiling. Like that night on the train, I remember Haymitch, dying alone because he'd pushed everyone away.   
  
I have always focused on keeping my family alive. For the first time it occurs to me that Prim is almost fourteen. I can count on four more years with her, but after that... How long will it take the boys to come courting? Not long. Prim is beautiful and gentle and kind. She is already learning from our mother - by eighteen she will be a herbalist and healer at least my mother's equal and probably better. She has Town-golden hair and beautiful blue eyes.   
  
She will marry soon enough, and have a family of her own. I know she wants it - she isn't like me. She's always wanted babies of her own, since she was still playing with her battered doll or stuffing rags into her own old baby clothes for a pretend baby.   
  
Peeta will find a girl. He's the only one of his brothers who can take over the bakery - when his parents finally die, he'll have a home as well as a business. Andy moved out this summer, his job as a surveyor paying well enough for him to start his own household and start looking for a wife to share it with. Soon the girls will realize that Peeta has prospects again, and they'll decide that a husband with a missing foot isn't so bad after all.   
  
Gale has never had any trouble getting girls. He'll find one who isn't like me, who wants children and... and to do married things with him. If the whispers I have heard once or twice are true, he already has, for all he claims it's me he wants.   
  
I feel small and selfish, lying in bed with my eyes burning and tears rolling down my cheeks because the people I love will be happy without me. Because Prim won't need me for much longer. Because my mother would probably be happier living with Prim and her husband - whoever he turns out to be - than with me. Because Peeta and Gale will find girls who can give them what they want, what I can't.   
  
I wish I knew what was wrong with me. I wish I knew why I don't want to do those things, why the thought makes my skin crawl instead of tingle. But I am too ashamed and embarrassed to even ask my mother, who might know. And because of that, I will be all alone.  
  
Prim wakes up, though I try to keep my crying silent, and hugs me and tries to comfort me. I lie and tell her it was a nightmare, about all the dead people in the Tower, and she holds me until I cry myself to sleep.   
  
Less than two weeks later, it is Reaping Day.   
  
We gather as we have always gathered, though this time the family groups stay together. My mother's arm is around Prim, and I feel sorry for her as I rarely have. She is still afraid, deep down, of losing Prim. As I look around, I see other mothers clutching children to them. Reaping Day means fear and grief to us all, and I wish Peeta had chosen another day.   
  
But it is what it is. A small, fragile-looking woman with dark skin and huge dark eyes like Paylor's explains the process. We must name one man and one woman to represent us in the Capitol. They will travel to the Capitol to become part of the first Senate. They won't have to live there all the time, she says, though nobody really knows yet how it will work out. We must choose people we trust to represent us, but they must also be people who can be spared because they'll be away a lot.   
  
A man near the front asks what happens to the Senator's families, if they have them.   
  
The woman says that families - spouses, children, and dependents - will be allowed to go with the Senators if they want to. Senators will be paid, and housing will be provided for them in the Capitol. Nobody will get rich in the Senate, she says, smiling slightly, but they'll live well enough.   
  
Then she asks for nominations, specifying that nominees must be over the age of eighteen and 'of sound mind'.  
  
Mayor Undersee is the first, of course, but he gets up and refuses, explaining that he's needed where he is.   
  
Greasy Sae is nominated by someone I can't see, and she gets up on the stage. Other names are called out, and other people stand on the stage. Gale is nominated. So are Theoph and Corwin, our spokesmen among the Peacekeepers. Rooba the butcher is nominated but turns it down. Cora Rose, one of the school-teachers, is nominated.   
  
When there are no more nominations, everyone over the age of eighteen is told to come up to the tables set out in front of the stage, the same tables where Capitol workers once took the blood of tributes. There they must write down the name of one man and one woman on a slip of paper, to vote for them.   
  
it takes a long time, and after a while Peeta slips away to the bakery. He brings back rolls of dark bread and a small decorated biscuit for each of us. I spend a coin on goat's milk that we all share. Only my mother can vote this year, but next year Peeta and I will have to too.   
  
Everyone stays, curious, to find out who wins the vote. I can't help wondering if Peeta wants Gale to win, to go away to the Capitol. When I look at him, though, he seems more interested in the voting process than the candidates.   
  
After all the votes are counted, when the sun is getting low, the names are announced. The two Senators for District Twelve are Theoph and Ms Rose. The small dark woman looks surprised, and there's some conferring between her and two of the other administrators. Mayor Undersee goes over to them to find out what the trouble is, then steps away. "He may not have been born here," the Mayor says sharply, loud enough for most of us to hear, "but he is a citizen of Twelve in good standing. That *is* the only requirement, is it not?"   
  
It is. I am pleased by the choices. Theoph is good at defusing conflict, and Ms Rose is clever. They'll do well enough in the Capitol, I think.   
  
It's a relief when it's over and we can go home.   
  
A few weeks later, a doctor and a couple of nurses show up. We find out about it when Madge comes by the house, looking annoyed. "People from the Capitol are *rude*," she says when I open the door, before I've even said hello. "Were they rude to you?"  
  
"They put me in jail for a week. That wasn't too friendly." I wave her in. "You want to stay for dinner? Peeta's making fish stew."   
  
Madge shakes her head. "I'd like to, but my mother's sick and Dad needs me. Hi, Mrs Everdeen," she adds, as she steps into the kitchen where my mother and Prim are doing something or other with dried herbs.   
  
"Hello, Madge." My mother wipes her hands on her apron, smiling. "How is your mother?"  
  
"A little better, I think. Now that food's coming in again, she's less worried. That helps." Madge sighs. "They finally sent a doctor, and a couple of nurses too. They weren't... very impressed with the available accommodations."   
  
I snort. "I'll bet they weren't. Where are they?"   
  
"In the old Peacekeeper barracks." Madge shrugs. "It seemed like a good place. It's close to the train, it has its own generator, and there's lots of room."   
  
I've been in those barracks, trading with the Peacekeepers before the war and after. They're pretty nice, by District Twelve standards. By Capitol standards, they're a hovel. "They must have had a fit."  
  
"The male nurse did. The female one just put her nose in the air and puckered up as if she'd eaten something sour. The doctor kept making remarks about 'making the best of it'." Madge sighed. "Mrs Everdeen, my father wants to know if you're willing to come down to the barracks tomorrow to meet them. You know more about medicine than most people here, except for old Avery, and... well..."  
  
Old Avery, the apothecary who took over from my grandfather, is so bad-tempered that he makes Coin look cuddly. He's getting old, he won't take an apprentice, and he hates my mother because she's competition.   
  
My mother looks nervous, but she nods. "Of course, that's no trouble. Does he want me to fill the new doctor in, or - "   
  
"Let him know what he's in for... and figure out if he's any good." Madge shrugs, then grins at me over the table. "Maybe take Katniss with you, so she can intimidate him a little if he needs it."   
  
I grin back. "You know, I think I could do that."   
  
As it turns out, I don't need to.   
  
Prim and I both go with Mom down to the barracks, to find a lot of half-unpacked boxes, a large mess, and three unhappy Capitol medics.   
  
The tall green-haired (I can't believe people in the Capitol are still doing that) man notices us first, and sighs deeply. "I don't know what you want," he snaps, "but you look perfectly healthy and we don't have time to waste on trivial problems right now. Isn't there some sort of local witchdoctor you people go to for minor injuries?"  
  
I am considering punching him until I see the look on my mother's face. She is fully present in the way she usually only is in the presence of an injured person, and she's furious. "Are you the doctor?" she asks grimly.   
  
"No, but - "  
  
"That would be me." The doctor is shorter, one of those people designed by nature to be small, round and bouncy. He's darker-skinned than I am but lighter than the woman who came to manage the voting, and his curly hair is cropped very short. "Doctor Androcles Cranbourne, a pleasure." He holds out his hand to my mother, smiling. "And you are?"  
  
"The local witchdoctor," my mother says icily.   
  
The green-haired man looks embarrassed. Doctor Cranbourne rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm sorry about that. Saldones hasn't quite accepted the fact that defaulting on one's debts has _actual negative consequences_ about which one should not complain if one does not wish to be put in jail." He draws himself up, glaring at Saldones. "And I will be explaining to him why that is a _very inappropriate term to use ever_ later. For now, I take it you're Mrs Everdeen. I really am delighted to meet you."   
  
Thankfully, he seems to mean it. Like some of the less objectionable reporters or administrators I met in the Capitol, he seems nice and entirely well-intentioned - and hopelessly ignorant of anything outside the Capitol. He does, at least, seem willing to learn.   
  
"And you're the midwife, as I understand it. I must say, I was glad to hear that," he says earnestly, while he's showing my mother some machine or other. "I haven't delivered a baby since my residency! I'm a surgeon, you see. We understand there's a lot of crushing or slashing injuries here - mining and, and so on." He waves a hand vaguely. "That's why they sent me. I'm quite good with those. But I really would be most grateful for your assistance with any deliveries, at least until I get my hand in again."   
  
Both nurses look outraged. The man hasn't quite ventured to speak yet, but the woman - whose mouth is puckered up like a goat's asshole in distaste - finally ventures a few words. "Perhaps you can tell us when the local staff will be arriving?" she asks my mother stiffly. "The orderlies and cleaning staff and so on?"   
  
My mother raises her eyebrows. "I couldn't say," she says coolly. "Have you hired any?"   
  
The nurse stares at her. "*Me*?"   
  
My mother puts her hands on her hips, looking all three of them over. "Let me make something clear to you," she says tartly. "You are not in the Capitol now. I have been treating sick and injured people in this town for over twenty years, and until a few years ago I did most of it in my kitchen, with people bleeding out or giving birth on my table or in front of my fire. I scrub my own floors, I cook my own meals - well, some of them," she adds, smiling a little. "I have two girls and a boy who do their share of cooking and cleaning - brewing and gathering, too, since most of my remedies are herbal. But I did for myself when they were too little to help, and when they marry and move on I'll be doing it again. Around here, nursing means cleaning up and feeding the patients as well as whatever it is _you_ think you do. Now, if you have money to hire more staff, then I can suggest a few people. Do you?"  
  
Doctor Cranbourne looks a little lost. "I'm... I'm not sure, actually," he says meekly. "We were told that we'd be provided with facilities when we arrived, but - "   
  
"If you have or you can get the money, I can recommend some people to you," my mother says, relaxing a little. "But if you can't, well, you'd better get used to scrubbing floors and cooking meals for the patients as well as yourselves."   
  
Doctor Cranbourne looks around him, then does his best to square his round shoulders. "Right," he says, taking a deep breath. "Well, frontier medicine, right? Making do. I've read about it. I do have a little money by, at least... could you recommend a couple of sturdy fellows who can help us move some of the heavier furniture and equipment?"  
  
We stop by the Mayor's house on the way home. "I'm not sure about the nurses, but the doctor's all right," my mother tells him. "He's bright enough to admit he doesn't know everything, at least - he asked me to assist him with birthing, since that's not what he usually does. He's good-hearted, I think. He means well."   
  
Mayor Undersee nods. The last few years haven't been kind to him, and there's a lot of grey in his hair now, but he smiles at my mother anyway. "Thank you. That's a weight off my mind. There's still so much anger in the district, even after Katniss and the others did their work in the Capitol." He nods to me gravely. "If he was the sneering sort... things might go badly for him."   
  
My mother nods. "The nurses are like that - they're working off debt, or something. Could be trouble." She looks grim. "If there is, they'll have brought it on themselves. He called me a 'local witchdoctor'." She pauses. "I'm not familiar with the word," she adds, frowning, "but it certainly sounded as if it was an insult."  
  
Mayor Undersee doesn't know the word either, but he has a dictionary. Apparently it's a particularly insulting term for a herbalist or 'magician' in a non-literate society, with nasty racial overtones that explain why Cranbourne was annoyed.  
  
By the end of the first day, there are bets being taken in town on how long the nurses will last. Doctor Cranbourne, at least, is nice in a dithery way. Once people find out that he defers to my mother's local knowledge - and skill at delivering babies - he's more or less accepted. Hazelle Hawthorne is soon employed to clean, cook, and provide the simple care that seems to be beyond the ability of the trained nurses, at my mother's recommendation.   
  
Gale doesn't like it.   
  
"They're so..." he shakes his head, kneeling to set one of his snares. "I don't know how my mother stands them." We still hunt together every Sunday. There may be more food available now, but money to buy it doesn't grow on trees. Gale is working in the mine, and Hazelle is making a decent wage, but they have four other kids to provide for - and not only to buy food and clothes for now, either.   
  
Now that it's possible to leave our Districts, the new Senate is arranging apprenticeship programs between districts - especially in Eleven and Nine. People from every District are sending boys and girls in their teens to learn how to farm, how to tend orchards or crops. It means that there are plenty of extra hands to take off some of the pressure on Eleven and Nine's populations, now that they're no longer being treated like slave labour. In years to come, the other districts will be expected to provide at least some of their own food. And it's not only them - Seven is doing well. The Districts have always been separated by miles of untouched land, to make it harder for people from one district to reach another undetected. A lot of that land is forested, after years of being untouched, and there's plenty of work for lumberjacks. Three is taking kids with a mechanical bent, Ten the ones with a knack for handling animals.   
  
There is no eager rush to learn coal-mining, of course. If anyone wanted to learn mining, they'd go to Two.   
  
But Gale is determined to save enough to send his brothers away for training, so they won't have to work in the mine the way he does. Rory is good with animals - he's been breeding rabbits for food and fur for two years now. Gale wants him to go to Ten to learn how to doctor animals.   
  
I envy him the possibility of it. I would sell my soul to send Prim to study medicine, but souls aren't worth much in the Trade Center. *That* kind of training can only be got in the Capitol, and would cost more money than I will make in a lifetime. I might be able to manage simple medic training, with a lot of luck, but that's all.

"Doctor Cranbourne is nice enough. He says stupid things sometimes, but he's getting better." I watch a mockingjay flit past. "And he convinced the mayor to let my mother keep up the nursing house."   
  
I am grateful to him for that, the more because he managed to make it look as if he wasn't just feeling sorry for my mother. She assists him at the new 'hospital' often enough that people started to say the house in Victor's Village wasn't needed, but Doctor Cranbourne surprised everyone by insisting that it was. There was no place in the barracks, he said, where mothers and new babies could be safely isolated from people who were contagious - and there are few things more dangerous to very small babies than the kind of contagious illnesses that strike in winter. In the nursing house, mothers and injured people who aren't sick will be safe from infection.   
  
"He's a stupid, helpless, Capitol..." Gale trails off, staring down at the snare. "He's been... paying attention to my mother."   
  
I blink. I certainly hadn't expected that. "Isn't he a little too young for her?"  
  
Gale frowns. "He's in his forties, even if he doesn't look like it. He says he is, anyway." He sits back on his heels. "I don't like it," he says, about the most unnecessary words I've ever heard. His whole body is stiff with how much he hates the idea. "I mean, he can't really mean anything by it. He probably just wants to... to have company while he's here, or..."   
  
I crouch beside him. I can see that he's really upset by this. "Maybe not," I say quietly. "Maybe he really likes her. I would, if I was him. She's nice, and she cares about people the same way he does, and all of that."   
  
Gale is still stiff with revulsion. "That's really not any better," he grits out, fists clenching.   
  
"Why not?" We are both aware enough of the realities of Hazelle's life to know better, I would have thought. Then I realize, and touch his shoulder sympathetically. "Your father's been gone for nearly six years," I say quietly. "If your mother wanted to marry again... being alone has been hard for her, for all of you. It wouldn't mean - "  
  
"I know it wouldn't mean. I know." Gale swallows hard. "How would you like it if _your_ mother remarried?"  
  
I actually laugh a little. "It's hard to imagine. You know what losing my father did to her. She's never been... right, since then. Not completely."  
  
"Yeah, I know." It's his turn to squeeze sympathetically. "But if she did... it wouldn't bother you?"  
  
My first instinct is to say that it would, but I at least think about it... it's still hard to imagine, after she loved my father so much that part of her died with him. She's never noticed any other man, though it would have made life easier for all of us if she _had_ found someone else, some man willing to care for children not his own...  
  
My throat tightens suddenly and I think of Haymitch. Of the way he teased her, called her 'Ruthie' and treasured her family as if they - we - were his own. I wouldn't have minded if it had been him. Haymitch would never have thought to fill my father's place, but he loved us in his acerbic way. He might even have made my mother happy - he could be kind, when it suited him. "It would depend who it was," I say slowly, trying to push away the thought of Haymitch. "If he made her happy..."   
  
Gale looks at me, seeming a little startled, then he shakes his head and pushes himself up onto his feet. "Yeah, well, a Capitol doctor who's not going to last wouldn't do that. I don't want her to get hurt, Catnip." His mouth tightens. "Or to think that... that she should provide for the younger ones that way."  
  
Women do it, we all know that. A widow with children to provide for rarely has the luxury of holding out for love to come a second time. Hazelle and my mother were lucky - they had children old enough to qualify for the tesserae, who could hunt and forage. Aspen, Theoph's wife, wasn't - and for all people sneered at her when it started, it worked out all right in the end. "She doesn't need to," I tell him. "She has you."   
  
"I know. But she's been saying..." He looks at me, with an intent look that makes me feel oddly unsettled. "She's worried that I'll think I have to keep taking care of them. That I'll miss having a family of my own because I'm providing for my brothers and sisters."   
  
I look away. "Gale, you said you wouldn't - "  
  
"I know. I just..." He sighs. "Never mind. Let's check the rest of the snares."   
  
The next time I go to the barracks with medicines - Cranbourne examined all my mother's herbal remedies, and actually uses a few of them for patients who prefer them to Capitol medicines - I watch him. He's friendly to Hazelle, as he is to everyone, and I can't tell if Gale is right or not. But whether Gale believes it or not, I think Hazelle could do worse. Cranbourne is a good man, if ignorant sometimes, and he clearly intends to stay in Twelve for the long term.   
  
I almost wish he wasn't. I'm not sure I want Gale to be free to start thinking of setting up his own household, not yet. I feel guilty for the selfish thought as soon as I have it, but... I asked them both for time. Maybe when I get used to the idea of Peeta and Gale caring for me that way, I'll feel... different, somehow.   
  
I am sitting at the table cleaning fish when I feel eyes on me, and look up to see Peeta watching me. He looks so sad that my own throat tightens, though I try to pretend it doesn't. I've been... not avoiding him, exactly. Even in a house this size, that isn't possible. But there's a distance between us that wasn't there before, and I don't know how to change that. "What?" I ask, a shade too harshly, and then regret it. "Sorry, you just... startled me."   
  
He nods. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I was just..." He swallows and smiles wistfully. "I was just remembering that time Haymitch told you about my father and your mother. You were sitting right there, cleaning the fish, and..."   
  
I nod, my eyes going automatically to the chair Haymitch always favoured. I feel guilty for assuming that he was thinking of me. "I remember." I laugh suddenly at the memory. "That was the first time anyone told you who you were, that's why we were talking about you. He came in and said he was glad it was me, and said something about my brother and sister being too damn cheerful, and I told him I didn't have a brother, and he was really worried for a minute that he'd been hallucinating you all that time."   
  
Peeta smiles a little wryly, coming in to sit at the table across from me. Just like that last time, he sets two loaves of bread on the table. "Huh. I guess it never occurred to any of us to tell him how I happened."   
  
I shake my head, remembering the way Haymitch looked at me then, the way he'd said I sure didn't act like *I'd* 'got' Peeta. "I wish he was still here," I say, and have to bite my lip to keep more from slipping out. I wish I could talk to Haymitch about Gale and Peeta. He'd laugh at me for not knowing, but he would have been honest. He was good at honest.   
  
"Me too." Peeta nods, looking down at the table. "I miss him."  
  
"Me too." Just for a moment, that distance between us is forgotten, and I let him see me wipe my eyes on my sleeve. "I wish he could have seen Coin fall. The elections..." I laugh shakily. "Can you imagine his face if he'd been nominated for Senator?"  
  
Peeta laughs at that too. "Oh, God... he'd have laughed himself sick. And threatened to throw up on whoever nominated him."   
  
"I would have," I admit, smiling. "Just to see it. He probably would've won, too - most of the Senators are Victors, so he'd have known them. Been able to get them to pay attention."   
  
"Point." Peeta leans his elbows on the table, watching me. "He'd have been proud of you," he says quietly. "The way you tore into Coin in the courtroom - he'd have loved that."  
  
I nod, biting my lip. I know Haymitch would have liked that, and it makes me feel both happy and sad to think of him being proud of me. "You too. That whole thing about rebellion."  
  
Peeta smiles ruefully. "I can just hear him, though. 'Goddamnit, boy, you make sure you got a clear exit before you pull shit like that."  
  
I laugh, a real laugh this time. "He'd have liked you taking down two fake peacekeepers with your crutches."   
  
He shakes his head, smiling. "Yeah, I'm not sure where that came from. I'm just... really, really tired of people attacking us."   
  
"Yeah, me too." I lay down the last fish, the messy job finished and the moment where I can pretend that nothing has changed - between us, in our lives - fades away. "But nobody's going to be attacking us any more. I guess we have to get used to that."  
  
"You sound like you don't like the idea." He frowns a little. "Do you... I don't know... miss the fighting?"   
  
I shake my head, even though I kind of do. "No. Yes. I just feel.... I don't know. Like I've spent my whole life pushing on a closed door and now it's open, and I... don't really know what to do with an open door. Does that make sense?"  
  
Peeta smiles. "Yeah. I know the feeling."  
  
I raise my eyebrows at him. "You do?"   
  
"Yeah." He gets up, and as he goes past he squeezes my shoulders. "When I moved in with you, I felt like that. I'd never gone a whole day with nobody yelling at me before. I didn't know what to _do_ if I wasn't trying to keep my mom calm."  
  
I wince. "I used to yell at you."   
  
He laughs, and for a moment he rests his chin on the top of my head. "You still do. But believe me, compared to her, you barely snap. You get used to it, Katniss, I promise. Change can be good."  
  
I'm not sure I believe him. I still hate change, and worst of all I hate the changes in my family. In me. I hate being forced to face my own strangeness, my own inedequacy when it comes to the things I'm supposed to want. But I lean into his hug. I don't hate that. I don't hate the safe, comfortable feel of his arm around me. I almost wish I could love him the way he wants me to, just to keep this.  
  
But that means losing Gale.   
  
And keeping Gale would mean losing Peeta.  
  
I hate change.   
  
  
  
  



	10. Adulthood

I am eighteen when I lose my mother again.   
  
The winter that year was milder than the two bad years before, and it is hard not to feel as if the weather itself is mocking us. It starved and froze us when we had nothing, and now that we have food and fuel again there is hardly a blizzard in sight.   
  
When I turn eighteen in spring I smile and try to appreciate the quiet celebration my family give me, but it's hard. I am eighteen now. A woman grown, done with school, expected to begin working in some trade or other... but I don't know what to do. I am a hunter, I always have been. I roam the woods every day as I always have, killing the wild dogs who stray too close to the fence, snaring and hunting and fishing. Nobody questions this. Everyone is used to my ways by now.   
  
I don't know what to do.   
  
Peeta begins working at the bakery full-time - his father's health is failing in some way or other, so they need him. His mother generally avoids him as much as possible, but it still has to be awkward. He assures us that he doesn't mind, that he likes working there enough to put up with her.   
  
My mother's patients can pay her now, in coin as well as in trade. Wages at the mine have gone up, and new businesses are flourishing, and almost all the women prefer my mother to Doctor Cranbourne, at least when it comes to having their babies and certain other feminine complaints. Doctor Cranbourne is perfectly happy with this. He will come to the nursing house if he's needed for a hard birth, and if a mother does need to have her baby in the barracks hospital, he will call my mother down to assist. She is so happy and proud when she puts her first coins into the jar that serves as the family purse.   
  
Even Prim, young as she is, is making money. Doctor Cranbourne has given her some basic training as a 'medic' and pays her a little every week to assist in the hospital on weekends. It's not much - a kindness on his part as much as anything else - but she's proud to contribute.  
  
Peeta makes much more money than I do, though he never mentions it. Even my mother sometimes makes more.   
  
I don't know what to do, or how to contribute more, and I'm not comforted when Prim tells me it's their turn to take care of me. I don't want them to take care of me. I want to take care of _them_ , the way I always have.   
  
Gale no longer works in the mine. He is being trained as one of the new Peacekeepers - police, the Senate calls them. Gale is big and strong and people trust him. He's happy, mediating disputes and enforcing the few laws we still have. He and I still hunt together, but with neither of our families needing the meat and the new awkwardness between us, he finds time less often than he used to.   
  
Without Gale, I go more often to the lake, to swim and fish and try to find some way to still fit into my own life. It is after a day at the lake that I come home with three fish and hair still wet to find that we have a visitor in our sitting-room.   
  
"Miss Everdeen." Beetee Latier inclines his head politely. My mother has served him tea in the pretty tea-set that was one of the only things she brought with her when she came to the Seam, and he has some of Peeta's cookies on a plate in front of him.   
  
"Mr Latier," I say just as politely. "What brings you here?"   
  
He sips his tea and smiles slightly. "You do, Miss Everdeen - you, Mr Mellark, and your sister, to be more exact. If I could have a few moments of your time?"   
  
I blink. "Oh. Is this about the... trial thing?"  
  
"No, that issue has been resolved." He sits and smiles slightly at me. It isn't until my mother hisses my name and looks pointedly at my hand that I realise I'm still holding the fish.   
  
A brief trip to the kitchen later and I am without fish, my hands clean and ready to receive the teacup my mother hands me. "So what is this about?" I am the last to arrive. Peeta's day starts before dawn these days - baker's hours, he calls them - so his afternoons are free, and Prim has been home from school for over an hour.   
  
Latier sets down a half-finished cookie. "I understand that Haymitch Abernathy left you a letter, before he died," he says politely. "Would it be possible for me to see it?"   
  
I don't like the idea of sharing it, and I ignore my mother's be-polite-Katniss stare to frown at him. "Why?"  
  
He shrugs slightly. "I understand that in it, Haymitch specified that he left his worldly goods to you, Mr Mellark, and Miss Primrose Everdeen?"   
  
I blink. "Oh. Yes, that's in there. Why, was there something you wanted?"   
  
Haymitch didn't leave a lot, once the garbage and the things too badly damaged to be repaired were sifted out. A collection of books was the bulk of it. A few pots and pans, mismatched dishes, and one or two ornaments that clearly belonged to the house... and his clothes, of course. A lot of those had to be thrown away, too filthy to ever be cleaned. The fancy Capitol things we put away, but there were some simple shirts and pants and sweaters that were salvageable. Prim and my mother made them over for Peeta, who is shorter than Haymitch was, except for a couple of soft, loose sweaters that I wear in winter. They remind me of him.   
  
"I would like to see the letter," Latier says patiently. "To be quite sure of the wording, you understand."   
  
I still don't like it, but it's hard to argue with him. I go to get the letter, handing it to him reluctantly, and he unfolds the single sheet with a care I appreciate. He reads it through, then folds it again and returns it to me. "I see," he says, his voice softer than it was. "Thank you for allowing me to read that, Miss Everdeen. You must understand that Haymitch left no formal will, but this, combined with the instructions he gave Chaff regarding you and your family, is certainly clear enough."   
  
"Clear enough for what?" Peeta leans forward, hands clasped on his knees. "He didn't leave much, you know."  
  
"More than you think." Latier draws a piece of paper out of his pocket and holds it out to me. "Since you are, as the letter's intended recipient, his effective executor, I believe this should be given to you."   
  
I unfold the paper, frowning. It says something about a bank and 'the deceased' and 'transfer of funds' and so on, but the number in the middle is so large that I can't drag my eyes away from it. Peeta leans over my shoulder to see, and lets out a low whistle. "That's a _lot_ of money."  
  
It's more than I could have expected to see in my lifetime. "But Haymitch didn't have any money. He nearly starved because - "   
  
"Because his stipend was stopped and his access to his funds was suspended." Latier nods. "The former Council seized his assets, in point of fact, quite illegally. It took me some little time to track down exactly what had been done and when, but Haymitch never spent all of his stipend, as far as I can determine. He never bought clothes except those provided for him by the District Escort every summer. He ate simply, and while he did buy large quantities of alcohol, he preferred to buy cheaply and in bulk. The sum here represents both the portion of his stipend that he saved - or at least failed to spend - over twenty-five years as a Victor, and the moneys unlawfully withheld from him in the year preceding his death. As his heirs, the three of you are entitled to divide the money between you."   
  
It's more money than I can easily imagine. It would keep us for years, _decades_ , it's enough to set up a business for each of us or...   
  
"We don't need this," Peeta says, looking troubled. "And I thought stipend money couldn't be inherited."  
  
"Under the rule of President Snow, it couldn't. However, those laws have now been altered." Latier shrugs, as if he didn't have anything to do with it. "Haymitch wished to make provision for the three of you, just as you provided for him while he was alive. The money is yours."   
  
My mother looks at the sum, and gasps. "That's so... good heavens. I never thought..."   
  
I look at Peeta. He still looks unhappy. "It's too much," he says softly, knowing I'll understand. "It doesn't feel right to... to *profit* from losing him."  
  
Prim nods. "He was family," she says quietly. "We shouldn't... we didn't do it for money."  
  
I agree with both of them, but I hold the paper carefully. "Mr Latier... this is a _lot_ of money, here. I know it probably doesn't seem like a fortune in the Capitol, not the way it is for us. Things cost more there, don't they?"  
  
He nods. "True. Why do you ask? Do you intend to move to the Capitol?"  
  
I'm startled enough to laugh at that thought. "No! No, never! Twelve is my home, I'd never leave. But this money..." I hold the letter out to him. "Is this enough for medical school? For a real doctor?"  
  
My mother's hands go to her mouth, and Prim's eyes are as round and wide as Buttercup's when he's startled. "Oh, Katniss," she whispers, sounding stunned.  
  
Latier cocks his head, considering the matter. "It could be, if managed carefully," he says thoughtfully. "But only for one person, not all three of you."   
  
"No." Prim is pale. "No, I couldn't - Katniss, we're supposed to share that money!"   
  
"We don't need it." I look at Peeta for support. "You were right, we're doing fine. We don't need this. But Prim - "  
  
"Prim could be a doctor." He nods, reaching over to take Prim's small hand in his broad one. "Prim, this is our chance," he says coaxingly. "A real doctor from Twelve... it's perfect. You know what Haymitch said about saving lives, before he died. Using the money he got for being a Victor to teach you how to _save_ lives, to do something good... I know he'd like that."   
  
Prim wavers visibly. "But I'm supposed to share it, not..."   
  
I lean over to kiss her temple. "You know I only ever wanted money for you, little duck," I say quietly. "I don't need this. And Peeta's right. Haymitch would like this, that his legacy does something good for the whole district."   
  
"I agree," Latier says quietly, taking his glasses off to polish them on a handkerchief. "I knew Haymitch for many years. Being a mentor, watching his Tributes die over and over... it took a toll on him. To have his savings put to use to train a doctor who could keep the Seam's children alive would have meant a great deal to him."   
  
Prim bites her lip. "Doctor Cranbourne said he would try... he said he might be able to get me a scholarship, so I could study, but he said it would still cost a lot. Mom, should I?" She turns to the only person who hasn't spoken, her small face troubled. "Is... is it right for me to use all of it?"   
  
My mother nods, stroking her hair. "For this... yes," she says softly, and when she looks at me and Peeta her face is alight with pride. "If Peeta and Katniss are willing to give up their share... yes. Haymitch would be very proud."   
  
Prim nods slowly. "Then I will," she says, her voice trembling and tears beginning to trickle down her face. "For Haymitch."   
  
Latier smiles slightly, and his dark eyes are softer when they look at her. "In that case," he says gently, "I believe I can advise you in how to handle the money until then."   
  
He shows me and my mother how to fill out the papers that will allow almost all the money to be moved into a secure 'investment account' in Prim's name, that she will be able to access when she turns eighteen. There the money can accrue interest for the next four years. He promises to send the remainder to us as a small fund against emergencies, which we all know is wise.  
  
After Latier leaves, I sit out in my mother's garden, looking out at the trees. I hear the soft tap of Peeta's crutches, but I don't look around until I realise he isn't sitting down beside me. When I look up, he's standing there watching me with an odd expression on his face. "What is it?" I ask, frowning.  
  
Peeta cocks his head. "Did it occur to you to *ask* me before you gave away my share of all that money?" he asks, a cool note in his voice that I haven't heard before.  
  
I blink at him. "I... no," I say weakly, because it didn't. Only now does it occur to me that perhaps it should have.   
  
"I could have bought a good prosthetic," he continues, still strangely cool. "Finally get off these damn crutches. Or start a business of my own, or - "  
  
"We talked about Prim!" I snap defensively. "You said we should try to save enough for her to study medicine, you said - "   
  
"I know I did!" he snaps back. "But you just... Katniss, you..." He sighs suddenly, the stiffness going out of him. "I know it's what you wanted for Prim," he says quietly. "And... I would have agreed with you. I don't need it. But I didn't like that you just made the decision without even asking me what I thought."   
  
"Fine. You know what? _You_ can handle the family money from now on, how does that sound? _You_ make all the decisions. You make most of the money anyway, so you might as well!" I am suddenly so angry that my fists clench themselves and my voice cracks. I know it's unreasonable. I'm not even sure why I'm so upset.   
  
Peeta looks startled. "Katniss, I didn't mean - "   
  
"If you don't want me making decisions for you, fine. _Fine_. You do it!" I storm away from him into the house, starting to run as soon as I'm out of his sight. By the time he makes it back into the house, I have my bow and a little money and I am gone.   
  
I eat supper at the Hob. No longer the black market, it is now a respectable hub of local trade, but Sae's soup is still a high point - even more so now that she has access to spices and decent quality ingredients more often.   
  
It's getting dark, and I know heading into the woods is a bad idea, but I do it anyway. I cannot bear to go home, not now. I am so unhappy and angry, and I don't understand why I feel that way, why I got so angry at Peeta when he had every right to complain about the way I behaved.   
  
I spend the night in the small house by the lake, wrapped in a blanket I leave there for when I swim. I could just live here, I think, staring into the coals of my small fire. Hunt and forage - I'd eat well enough only fending for myself - and visit the Hob now and then to trade furs and herbs for the few necessities I can't provide myself. When Prim doesn't need me any more, when Peeta finds a good town-girl for a wife, I could come here where nobody would ever find me. If I am going to be alone, at least I can be alone in peace.   
  
I don't sleep much, and rise before dawn. I shoot a pair of foolish ducks - there have been ducks on the lake for the last couple of years, perhaps because I hunt and fish here so often that I have cleared out many local predators. It is still early when I reach home, an hour past dawn. Peeta, of course, has been at the bakery since I got up, but my mother and Prim are both in the kitchen when I come through the back door.   
  
"Katniss!" Prim runs to me, for once heedless of the little feathery bodies, and hugs me tightly. "Oh, Katniss, we were so worried! Where were you? Are you okay?"   
  
"I'm fine." I hug her back, completely unable to pretend I'm _actually_ fine. My throat is already tight again. "I was in the woods, in a safe place I know. I knew that if I was there at dawn, I could get some ducks."   
  
My mother has taken the ducks from my hands. To my surprise, she actually glares at me. "Never do that again!" she says, perhaps the first time she's tried to forbid me something since I was twelve. "Katniss, we were worried sick! Peeta said he'd upset you somehow, but he didn't know why you were upset - he and Prim went all over the town and the Seam looking for you!"   
  
"I was _fine_. I had my bow, you knew that." I look away from her, feeling guilty. "I just... it wasn't Peeta's fault, I... "   
  
Tears are still running down Prim's face. "Katniss, was it because of me? Because of - I don't need to go, I wouldn't - "   
  
"No. Yes," I add, because it's true enough. "Prim, I want you to go. I do. You'll be a wonderful doctor, and Haymitch and... and Dad would have been so proud. I'll be so proud." I touch her cheek, and I find something that's true, something that can explain the anger I can't explain to myself. "I'll just miss you so much," I add, letting my voice crack a little. "You'll be so far away for so long..."   
  
Prim cries harder, then, and my mother cries, and I let myself cry a little with them. I even let my mother comfort me, or try to. They understand that. They know how much Prim means to me, how terribly I will miss her. It's enough to explain my explosion of irrational temper and my night's absence, though I know it isn't the reason. I *will* miss Prim, but that isn't why I got so angry and hurt.   
  
Prim stops at the bakery on the way to school, to tell Peeta I am home and safe. When he comes home, it's obvious that she's given him the false explanation for my behaviour, too. He touches my shoulder, his eyes soft with understanding. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I didn't - "  
  
"You don't need to apologize. You were right, I should have asked you." I keep plucking the ducks, careful to save even the smallest feathers. I always do this. We may have gone to bed hungry often enough since I started hunting, but all the birds I have shot over the years were enough to stuff a quilt with down and small feathers, so that even in the coldest winter Prim slept warm. I will start work now on saving enough feathers for another one. Perhaps some of Haymitch's finer clothes can be cut up for a quilt that won't entirely embarrass Prim if she takes it to the Capitol. Haymitch's clothes, my mother's stitching, my feathers... if she's going so far away, she should have something from home. Something that will remind her she is loved.   
  
"I should have known it wasn't the best time," he says, sitting on the step beside me. "I should have realised how upset you'd be over losing Prim.   
  
"I was going to lose her anyway," I say bitterly. "This is just... further away."   
  
"I don't understand." He frowns at me, picking up a pin-feather and running it absently through his fingers.   
  
I keep my eyes on the duck. "She's going to grow up and move on. Get married. Have the children she wants. She won't need me any more." I don't want to say it, but the words force their way out of me. I am able to bite back what always follows in my mind - that Peeta, too, no longer needs me. That soon he will realise how foolish he is to think he loves me.  
  
Peeta sits quietly for a moment. "She will always need you," he says softly.   
  
"No, she won't."   
  
"She will." He sounds sure of it, but Peeta is good at sounding sure. "She doesn't resent your mother the way you do, but she doesn't count on her either. Not the way she does on you." He looks at me. "You know how hard it was for your mother, when your father died. She didn't have anyone to turn to. Prim knows that she'll always have you. That if she gets sick, or she loses someone she loves, or if she needs help, you will always be there and you'll always take care of her. That matters, Katniss."   
  
My throat is very tight. "I know it does," I whisper. But I don't tell him what else I know - that she has *him*, too. That he is far better able to provide the help she may need than I am. I was so glad, when I was fourteen, to have a partner in caring for her. To know that Prim wasn't dependent on me alone. I don't understand why it hurts me now to know that he can do better for her than I can.  
  
I find myself avoiding my home, after that. I stay out hunting as much as possible, or linger in the Hob or the Trade Center. It is in the Trade Center that I see a familiar thing, though it takes me a while to remember what it is.   
  
I pick the little metal device up, turning it over in my fingers. "This is a spile, isn't it?"  
  
Kerrick, the trader from Seven, nods. "You're the first person who's had any idea what it is," he says, sounding pleased. "I thought they'd sell here - you have a lot of the same trees we do in Seven - but nobody here even knows what a maple is, seems like."   
  
I frown, trying to remember. "Maple... they have sweet sap, don't they? You can get sugar from it."   
  
He nods eagerly. "So you do have them here?"  
  
"I... yes. My father had a couple of these." I point at the spiles. "He kept them hidden outside the fence, though, and after he died I couldn't find them. I remember the sap, though. You boil it, right?"   
  
He nods. "There are plenty of maples in Seven. That's what we used to buy off Peacekeepers, instead of fresh meat." He knows my history well, as do most of the traders. "You want some of these? I can find you some directions on how to use them and what to do with the sap, bring them along on my next trip. You shouldn't tap the trees in summer, but there's a short season in autumn, and a longer one in spring, so you'll have time to wait."   
  
Sugar is still expensive here, and probably always will be. It's a luxury, one that has to be hauled a long way by train at that. I remember the fragrant sweetness of the sap my father brought home, and for the first time in months I feel less hopeless. Most people won't venture far outside the fence even now - it will be years before conditioned fear loses its grip, especially since the woods really are dangerous.  There are tracker jacker nests, wild dogs, and even an occasional bear - one that I know of for sure, to the west of the hunting grounds Gale and I prefer. We avoid him, which seems to work for everyone.   
  
So I will have no competition if I begin to harvest maple sap, none at all. I only vaguely remember what the trees look like, but they're in our book. I can seek them out now, mark them, and when autumn comes I can harvest gallons of the stuff if I can get my hands on enough buckets. Some candy for a child's birthday, or one of Peeta's lovely cakes with their soft sugar - everyone is willing to save for sweets, even me.   
  
"I'll take all of them. And the instructions." I lean against the table, ready to haggle. "What do you want for them?"  
  
He takes coin - I do have some - and three pairs of breeder bunnies. I have to bargain with Gale's brother Rory for the rabbits, but Kerrick is in no hurry. At the end of a week, I deliver three pairs of soft, twitchy-nosed young rabbits that have been handled by humans since babyhood and are quite tame. He gives me the spiles, and promises to bring the written instructions on his next trip.   
  
The next Sunday, Gale meets me at our usual place. "What on earth do you want rabbits for?" he asks as soon as he sees me. "Don't we trap enough of them?"  
  
I shrug. "Kerrick wanted breeders, and catching live ones is a pain."   
  
He's puzzled until I explain, and then enthusiastic. He offers to help me scout out the trees, and I promise him a bucket of sap when I get some. He agrees that it's a good little money-spinner - and then offers me a job.   
  
I just stare at him. "You want me to *what*?"  
  
It's his turn to shrug. "Why not? You're tough, and I know you. You won't take bribes to ignore something you know is wrong, and people listen to you. You'd make a good officer."  
  
"I'm too short. Shouldn't an officer be bigger?"  
  
He laughs, reaching over to tweak my braid. "I think you'd manage. Come on, Catnip. The pay's all right, and you can make a difference."   
  
I know he's right, but I shake my head. It's not for me. "Taking orders? Seriously, Gale, can you see anyone successfully telling me what to do?"   
  
"Yeah. Me." He grins and tugs my braid again. "We've always worked well together."   
  
"I'd shove my bow down your throat in a week." I shake my head, looking up at the tree-branches between us and the sky. "Enforcing rules isn't for me, Gale. But thanks."  
   
I have less than a week to enjoy my brighter prospects before the blow falls.   
  
At dinner one night, my mother pushes her plate away and folds her hands in front of her. There are a couple of bites of potato left on the plate, so I know she's upset. It will be a long time before any of us can easily leave food uneaten. "I need to talk to all of you," she says quietly.   
  
We all stare at her, Prim's fork stopping halfway to her mouth. "What is it?" she asks anxiously.   
  
"Doctor Cranbourne has been having trouble keeping nurses, you know that." My mother looks nervous. "He's asked me more than once if I would be willing to get formal training - there's some kind of special training program for people from the Districts, for nurses and midwives, that the government pays for. It's not medical school, but it would mean I could work for Doctor Cranbourne as a nurse-midwife. I'd get paid regularly, not just when babies come or someone gets hurt. I'd know more, be able to give more medicines..."   
  
My fork hits the floor. I don't remember it leaving my hand. "You're leaving," I say flatly, my voice sounding oddly distant in my ears.  
  
My mother swallows and nods, lifting her chin a little. "I'm thinking about it. Of course I need to consult you, all of you. But Katniss, you and Peeta are both eighteen now. You're old enough to be left in charge, and I know you'd take good care of Prim."   
  
"You're _leaving_." I wonder if there's some part of me that thinks repeating this will make it easier to understand. "For how long?"  
  
My mother takes a deep breath. "A year," she says quietly. "At least. Probably two, even with my experience. I'd be able to come back sometimes for short breaks, but..."   
  
Prim's lip quivers, but she nods. "You should do it," she says quietly. "We'll miss you a lot, but... but it's like Peeta and Katniss said about me. It would make a big difference for everyone here to have someone they trust, who isn't going to leave a few months in."   
  
Peeta looks nervous, but he nods when my mother looks at him. "It's an opportunity," he says quietly. "To get the training and not have to pay for it."   
  
Prim manages a small, trembling smile. "And when I'm a doctor, we could work together," she says hopefully. "I'd like that."  
  
My mother's smile is just as shaky. "So would I."   
  
Then they all look at me.   
  
My throat is tight and I'm shaking. There's a knot of emotions in my chest that are so tangled that I can't identify half of them. All I know for sure is that my mother is doing what I've known she would do since I was eleven. She's leaving us again. "Go ahead," I say, my voice still distant in my ears. "It's not as if it's ever mattered if we need you or not."   
  
My mother flinches. "Katniss - "  
  
"It doesn't matter." I push away from the table. I'm leaving food too, but my stomach is too knotted now to admit more food. "I'll take care of Prim, just like I always have. I don't need you."   
  
I walk away before she can see me cry, locking myself in the little bedroom that belonged to Haymitch. I refuse to open the door, though Prim and my mother both cry and beg me to. I pull the pillow over my head so they won't hear me crying too.   
  
I am woken from a restless, nightmare-riddled sleep by a soft knocking. It's still dark outside the window, but I feel like I've been asleep for a while.   
  
The knock comes again. "It's Peeta," he says softly. "I made mint tea."   
  
My throat is so dry that my voice is a thin rasp. "Are they out there?"  
  
"No. It's three in the morning. Baker's hours."   
  
I crawl off the bed, stiff and aching, and unlock the door. Peeta doesn't just have mint tea - he has a tray balanced precariously on one hand while he manipulates his crutch with the other, with tea and a large cup of water and a couple of the cheese rolls I love, the ones he bakes in our kitchen with cheese made by Prim and the herbs I grow or gather. I grab the cup, gulping the water, and after that there is no way to say I don't want the rest.   
  
Peeta sits on the bed beside me as I sip my tea. "Do you remember the train to the Capitol?" he asks me quietly, after a minute.   
  
When everything started to go wrong. When I found out about him and Gale and what they secretly wanted from me. I nod, not looking at him. If he thinks now is a good time to bring _t_ _hat_ up again, I'll hit him. Hard.  
  
He takes my free hand, clasping it between his. "You told me then that you wanted me to move in because you needed someone to help you take care of Prim," he says softly. "That you trusted me with her."   
  
It's not what I expected him to say, and I look up to find him watching me. "You're good at it. Better than me, sometimes." A lot better than me, especially now. I should have comforted Prim last night, I should have been reassuring her that everything would be okay without Mom. That I would take care of her. Instead I covered my head with the pillow and shut her out.   
  
He smiles a little. "We're good at different things. It's like you said... you don't need me to do the stuff you can do. I handle the feelings and stuff. You do the hunting and protecting. Right?" He waits until I nod slowly. "Between us, we do a good job. Prim's happy."   
  
I nod again, and I feel a little better. I am angry at my mother for leaving, but my panic fades a little at the reminder that I am not alone this time. I don't love Peeta the way he wants me to, but he is my partner at home even more than Gale is in the woods.   
  
Peeta squeezes my hand gently. "I know you're upset," he says gently. "But you're not the only one who's having to find new ways to live, Katniss. Your mom is a healer, but she knows no doctor will respect her without formal training. That she'll get edged out soon enough, when they find someone who'll stay here."  
  
I just stare at him for a minute. I don't know how he _does_ this, how he takes tangled, incoherent feelings and fits them into words that make sense. So much of the tension and anger I've been feeling is built around not knowing how to cope with how much my life has changed, having to find new ways to survive when I just got good at the old ones. It never occurred to me that my mother might be worried too, or that her life was changing yet again. It's different for Peeta - he's a baker, a good one, as well as a talented artist. People will always need bread, and he'll always have a trade.   
  
I look down at our linked hands, blushing. I never realised how much of my tension around Peeta came from that, from envying his security in being able to take care of his family. I feel small and selfish again. "So she's just going to leave us again." I may feel guilty for how I've treated Peeta, but I am still bitterly angry at my mother.  
  
He tips my chin up, making me look at him, and his expression is very serious. "Katniss, a while ago you got upset because Prim wasn't going to need you any more," he says gravely, sounding sad and reproachful. "How do you think your mother feels, knowing that you haven't needed her for years? That you'd rather bring me in, a total stranger, than count on her to take care of Prim? How would you feel?"   
  
"She let us starve!" My voice breaks, and it sounds much younger than it usually does. "We needed her, and she just _sat_ there, and I had to take over! I had to take care of Prim, and sell things, and find food, and..."   
  
His arms go around me, holding me tight, and I cry bitterly into his shoulder. I've never talked about that time, never, not even to Prim. Now I muffle my wails in Peeta's broad shoulder, and he rocks me and strokes my hair and murmurs soft words of comfort.   
  
He's probably going to be late, I realise, when I finally pull back to wipe my eyes, but he doesn't say anything about it. "I know it hurt. That it still does." He smooths my hair back from my face so tenderly that it makes my chest ache. "I mean, I don't understand, but I know it. But it's not going to happen again. I'm here. I'll always be here. You don't need to take care of Prim by yourself ever again, okay?"   
  
I nod, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "But she's still going to leave."  
  
He draws my head down and kisses my forehead gently. "Katniss, she's spent the last seven years depending on you," he says gently. "She knows that's not right, even if the two of you don't ever talk about it. She's trying to make sure you don't have to take care of her any more, that she can provide for herself... and for you and Prim, if you need her to. She's not leaving because she doesn't love you."   
  
I believe him, because Peeta is better at feelings than I am. I even force myself to speak a few stilted words to my mother before she leaves. But I don't think I will ever forgive her for leaving me again.   
  
  
  
  



	11. The Hits Keep Coming

I am eighteen the first time I am called a slut.   
  
After my mother left, there was tension at our house. Prim missed Mom and was angry at me for being angry at her. I wasn't any happier with Prim for siding with Mom. Peeta, as usual, acted as peacemaker, explaining to each of us the other's point of view, comforting us with treats from the bakery and jokes to make us smile.   
  
It's relatively easy to divide up the chores between three instead of four. Peeta handles most of the cooking - he already did about half of it - and Prim does the rest, along with making her cheeses. Prim makes very good cheese, and it sells well. I do the bulk of the cleaning. I don't like it, but I'm better at that than at cooking, and it's much easier for me than for either small Prim or Peeta on his crutches. I carry our laundry down to Ada, who started taking it in when Hazelle stopped. She does a good job, and gives us a good deal because I pay her in coins rather than trade. I handle the money, selling Prim's cheeses and buying what we don't produce ourselves. Peeta and Prim are both too soft-hearted to bargain hard. Prim and I start getting up and going to bed earlier, to keep Peeta company.   
  
In the evenings, we sit together and read Haymitch's books, or sing, or play games. Haymitch had some playng cards, and one of his books describes how to play games with them. Poker is fun, but Peeta always wins because Prim and I are awful at hiding what's in our hands. Blackjack is just dull, all down to chance. We all like Go Fish and Backalley Bridge, though.   
  
We are still a family, even without my mother. I tell myself that I don't even miss her.   
  
I don't know when the whispers start, but it's probably soon after my mother leaves. I notice after a while that I'm getting funny looks, but I put it down to the fact that I still don't have a 'real' job, that I still hunt and roam the woods outside the fence even though I have other options. The joke is on them, I think. I have found and flagged dozens of maple trees, and Kerrick has promised me some metal buckets with lids, that can be boiled perfectly clean and won't taint the sap. I am already buying up glass jars and bottles to store it in. Ada's big washtubs will serve perfectly for boiling up the sap - they're steel too, and can be cleaned thoroughly. She's agreed to rent me the tubs for a week or two in autumn, though I haven't told her why.   
  
It's Madge who tells me what's really going on. Her mother is doing better, now that there's a real doctor she can see, but Madge is still busy taking care of her father's house and acting as his assistant. I still drop by to sell things at their back door, even though I don't need to. It's just as easy for me to take my herbs and fruit or Prim's cheeses or Peeta's seasoned flatbread to them as to the Hob - easier, since I pass right by the Mayor's house on my way into town. Now, though, I am invited in for tea, not paid off on the doorstep.   
  
Madge has developed a passion for tea. Not only the black stuff we can finally get regularly, but all kinds of herb teas. She buys a lot of herbs from me, and grows more, drying them herself and mixing them carefully. Today she hands me a cup full of something brownish-red, that smells sweet. "Here, this one is new."  
  
I sip it and blink, recognizing the tart bite. "Is that cranberry?"   
  
She nods. "I've been trying dried fruit," she explains proudly. "I want to make a strawberry one for Dad, but I thought I'd practice with the cranberries since I had them on hand. What do you think?"   
  
"I like it," I say honestly, taking a bigger sip. I don't like all of Madge's teas, but this one with its sweet scent and tart bite, the herbs overlaid by the fruit and a hint of clove, is nice. "Can you make some up for me? Prim and Peeta might like it too."   
  
Madge nods. "I'll have a packet for you next time you bring cheese." We sit at the kitchen table with our tea, the way we usually do, but after she's asked after Prim and Peeta her face turns grave. "Katniss, do you remember when Peeta first moved in with you, and everyone at school... well... said things?"   
  
I am surprised, but I nod. "I remember. But it stopped after a while... didn't it?"   
  
"It did." Madge sips her tea and sighs. "I mean, everyone could see that you and Peeta were just friends, and everyone thought you and Gale... well."   
  
I frown. "Everyone thought me and Gale? He's my friend, Madge, not - "   
  
She holds up a hand. "I know that." she says seriously. "We've been friends for a long time. If you had a boyfriend... or wanted one... I think I'd know." She pauses. "Not that you'd tell me," she adds, smiling a little. "We don't talk about those things. But I know you pretty well."   
  
I'm glad that she doesn't seem offended by that. I *wouldn't* tell her, at least not until I was pretty sure, but it's not that we're not friends. I just don't like talking about those things. "I don't. Want one, I mean." I frown into my tea. "I found out while we were away that.... that Peeta and Gale... you know."  
  
To my relief, she nods. "I've known that for a while. Well, I knew about Peeta, I only suspected Gale."  
  
Everyone in the whole *world* knew except me!  
  
Madge continues, unaware of my sudden anger. "And I know you weren't interested in either of them, Katniss. You never had _time_ for a boyfriend, until this last year. You had to work so hard just to survive. And you never wanted to get married anyway, so why bother?"   
  
I forgive her for knowing before I did immediately. At least she understands some part of my own irritation. "So why bring it up now?"  
  
"Because people are talking again - and not just the ones we went to school with." Madge meets my eyes squarely. "It's different now, Katniss. When you were both kids, living with your mother - that was different. Now she's gone away, and you and Peeta are both adults - not that you weren't before," she adds thoughtfully. "I mean, you've both been taking care of your family for years. But now it's official."   
  
It never occurred to me, but when I think about it I know she's right. A young man and woman of eighteen, living together unchaperoned except by a child of fourteen... gossip must have started spreading as soon as my mother stepped onto the train.   
  
People do have sex without being married, of course, but it's frowned on pretty hard because that leads to babies sooner or later and pregnancy outside marriage has always been a big deal in District Twelve. I know several people who got married at stick's end, so called because everyone knows the one time anyone gets away with sharpening a stick into a makeshift spear is when their daughter has turned up pregnant and the boy or man in question isn't volunteering to do the decent thing. (The kind of man who would leave his child to starve, who won't provide for mother and child the only way he can in Twelve, is one I have no trouble separating from 'decent' people.)   
  
The only time the Peacekeepers took any interest in that was if the girl was still young enough for the Reaping. A pregnant Tribute wouldn't play well, so if a girl under eighteen got pregnant outside the three-month window that would let her give birth before the Reaping, she would be hustled up to the Justice Building for an injection that would force her to miscarry. A girl died that way when I was thirteen - she'd managed to hide her pregnancy until she was five months along, with her mother's help. The mother would have been flogged under anyone but Cray, who was too lazy to bother. She was fined instead, and the girl died when they gave her the injection.   
  
She was luckier than some. An unmarried woman with a child can be an intolerable burden on a family already close to starving. Sometimes her parents have to choose between turning her out - to starve or whore for Cray - and letting their own younger children die of starvation. If she stays with her family, it may mean that brothers or sisters have to decide between having a family of their own or providing for the baby they had nothing to do with creating. No matter what, she will be a social pariah. In a District where it's rare even for shopkeeper's children to have enough to eat, burdening your family with a fatherless child who will need to be fed for years to come is a terrible act of selfishness. (Unless it was a Peacekeeper. There's still shame there, but far less, because he was a Peacekeeper and 'no' wasn't usually an option with the bad ones.) Of course, that's in the Seam - it might be different in town, but I doubt it. Certainly if a Town girl makes the mistake of producing a black-haired, grey-eyed baby she's likely to be out on her ass before the cord is cut.   
  
  
I know all this. I know it the same way that I know that stealing is punishable by death and that Prim is my responsibility, on a bone-deep level that requires no thought. How can I not understand it, when my mother's selfishness nearly doomed _our_ family? (There have been times when I almost understood, when I knew she couldn't help it, but this is not one of those times.)  
  
I just never applied any of that to myself. Why would I? I don't _want_ that. I can't imagine why anyone would. There was never the slightest possibility that I would bear a child, unmarried or not. The Peacekeepers - the bad ones - were gone before my cycle even became regular, and no man from Twelve is crazy enough to try to rape the one girl in the district who could not only kill him but skin him, butcher him, and leave him out in the woods where nobody would ever find the body. And that's not even going into what Gale would do if _he_ found out. So babies were never something that would happen for me.   
  
But now people are whispering about me and Peeta, and I have to sip my tea slowly to try to wash down the roiling knot of emotion and nausea trying to rise in my throat.   
  
I am angry, so angry my hands shake with it. I'm angry because they think I would do that, that after my years of working myself to the bone to take care of my family - not just Prim and Mom, but Peeta and Haymitch - I would burden them with a child to provide for.   
  
I'm angry that anyone dares think Peeta would do such a thing, that he would even consider seducing me without a decent offer of marriage. He wouldn't, he would _never_ , and they should know that!   
  
I'm angry that they think I would seduce _him_ , that they are probably already saying about me the things they always say about Seam girls on the catch for a husband from Town, as if there's something wrong with wanting your children to occasionally have enough to eat. As if it should matter now, with more money and food in the district than ever before.  
  
I'm angry because this will hurt Prim. I'm angry because this will hurt Gale. I'm angry because this will hurt Peeta, and things between us are confused enough.  
  
Madge lays her hand gently on my arm, and I realise I've been staring murderously at my tea for some time. "It's stupid," she says gently. "Everyone who knows you knows that. I know that doesn't help," she adds, because Madge has a lot of common sense. "But I thought I should remind you anyway."  
  
I nod jerkily. "Thanks. I should..." She is my friend, and I should probably at least try to talk to her, so I meet her eyes and smile wryly. "Well. I should go kill some fuzzy animals before I lose my temper at a person."  
  
She laughs quietly at that. "That's probably a good idea. Maybe walk through town with some corpses, just to make sure people remember you're good at making things dead."  
  
Madge is a good friend.   
  
I know when Peeta finds out. He comes home from the bakery silent and stiff, his eyes wounded. He cuts meat and vegetables for our supper as if they have done him a personal injury, and won't look me in the eye.   
  
When I catch Prim watching him with sad eyes, I know that she knows too.   
  
"So who was it?" I ask, from the other end of the table. While Peeta prepares food, I am making new arrows. Mine aren't as good as my father's, yet, but I'm getting better. I've finally found the trick to the fletching.   
  
Peeta chops a potato in half so forcefully that one half rolls off the table. He actually curses, something he almost never does.   
  
"It's okay, I'll get it." Prim picks up the runaway vegetable and goes to rinse it clean in the sink.   
  
I wait until Peeta turns back to the remaining vegetables and repeat the question. "So who was it?"  
  
"Who was what?"  
  
"Who told you that there's gossip going around about you and me?" I keep my voice level, though it takes an effort. Peeta is upset, that means it's my turn to be calm and under control.   
  
His head comes up and he glares at me. "You _knew_?"  
  
"Madge told me a few days ago." I focus on trimming my goose-feathers, stiff and perfect and easily bought from any child whose mother keeps geese for a boiled sweet or a cheese roll.   
  
"And you didn't tell me?" He actually sounds angry, which is almost as rare as him swearing.  
  
"I was going to." I shrug, letting him see me scowl. "I couldn't figure out how to start."   
  
He makes a small, angry noise, but I can see his shoulders relax. "I couldn't either," he admits after a moment.   
  
"Neither could I." Prim goes over to him, resting her head on his shoulder for a minute. "People are just... awful sometimes."  
  
"They are." He hugs her with one arm, the way I do. "I hoped nobody would say anything to _you_ , at least."   
  
Prim shrugs. "A few of the kids at school... the mean ones. They always find something to say." She gives me a troubled look, and it takes me a moment to recognise it. She knows this will upset me, and she wants to fix it. Prim wants to protect _me_.   
  
She's grown up so much.  
  
"It doesn't matter," Peeta says quietly. "They'll talk for a while, and we'll ignore it, and after a while they'll realise how stupid they sound, trying to make stuff up when we're behaving exactly the way we always have. Just like last time."   
  
Prim looks startled. "There was a last time?"   
  
"When he first moved in. Kids said things, at school..." I shrug, the memory that hasn't bothered me for years suddenly uncomfortable. "It stopped after a while."   
  
Maybe it will this time, too, I hope. But I see the set look on Peeta's face as he goes back to his potatoes, and I know he doesn't believe it either.   
  
The stares and whispers get more obvious. Mutters of 'indecent' and 'shameful' from people who don't realize how sharp my ears are. One of Peeta's mother's friends calls me a slut to my face, and is actually surprised when I slap her so hard she falls over. I don't know why - everyone knows I dislocated Peeta's mother's jaw with a rolling pin when I was fifteen. But Deana lies there staring up at me in shock. "You hit me!"  
  
"You insulted me." I glare down at her. "Did you think I'd just take it?"  
  
I can tell from her expression that she did. That she expected me to be embarrassed or ashamed, to flee or try to explain myself as if I owed her something. "But..." she says weakly.  
  
I shrug, keeping my face hard and impassive. "I have done _nothing_ that would have cost my father a wink of sleep," I tell her, loud enough that the people around us can hear. "But even if I had, it would be none of your business. I am a grown woman and I can make my own decisions." I hear the murmurs around us - we've drawn a crowd - and raise my voice slightly. "After all, it's not as if I wasn't there all the times that my mother told some girl or woman how to make sure she didn't get pregnant."  
  
There are at least five women in the crowd who should be very, very nervous right now, and that's not counting the ones who might suspect their daughters of slipping away to the slag heap with some boy or other. Good. I want them to remember that I can talk too. That I'm no healer, nor fond enough of my mother to keep secrets for her - as far as they know, anyway. And what I know is much worse than what they suspect.   
  
After that, the whispers quiet down some. After I punch the first man to proposition me so hard that he pukes all over the Trade Center's clean floor, and Gale gets into two fights that both he and his battered opponent refuse to discuss afterward, they quiet down even more.   
  
But they're still there. I still see people looking at me, and the pinched look around Peeta's mouth comes more and more often. Prim stops mentioning two girls who used to be friends of hers, and I know they must have said something.  
  
It is during that time that the television tells us that Mags has died. We don't watch it often, but we do watch the weekly bulletins about the Senate, and they mention why Finnick has left. "That's sad," Peeta says quietly. "She was nice."   
  
"She was nearly ninety," I remind him. "That's a pretty good stretch. And she'd already had one stroke, hadn't she?"   
  
"Yeah, but it's still sad," Peeta says, watching the little clip of Mags with Finnick and Annie at the baby's christening. They're so happy, Mags clearly doting on all three of them as Finnick beams proudly and Annie cuddles her baby.   
  
"It is." I hesitate. "Do you think we should call them, to give them our sympathies? I mean, it seems polite." I liked Finnick, though I didn't know him for long. And Peeta and Annie were close at the end. But maybe they won't see it that way?  
  
Peeta blinks. "Can we? Do you know the number to call?"   
  
"No, but I know who to ask."   
  
Chaff calls now and then because Haymitch asked him to keep an eye on us, and I have the number to call him. When I ask, he gives me the private number that most of the news organisations would probably kill for. "I don't think they'll mind," he says cheerfully, when I ask. "They liked the two of you, and you did save their lives."   
  
So Peeta and I sit in the study and I make the call. I almost ask him to do it, but he looks tired and sad - he often does, lately. I know it's because of me. He still loves me, though he never talks about it, and if I loved him back we could get married and there wouldn't be any more whispers.   
  
To keep myself from thinking about that any more, I make the call.   
  
"Hello?" Finnick sounds exhausted and unhappy. "Who is it?"  
  
I clear my throat a little nervously. "Uh... it's Katniss Everdeen," I say, feeling awkward. "I... we, Peeta and I, just wanted to call to tell you and Annie that, that we're sorry for your loss." I should have had Peeta do this. He's good at talking. What possessed me to think _I_ should do it?   
  
But Finnick's voice actually softens a little. "Thank you," he says, sounding like he means it. "It wasn't... it was't exactly unexpected. She never recovered completely after the broken bones she got in the attack last year. But it doesn't really matter how much warning you have, does it? You're never prepared."   
  
"No," I say quietly. "No, you're never prepared."   
  
He sighs, and I can picture the look on his face, the one I saw a few times when it relaxed from its cheerful mask, when lines bracketed his mobile mouth and he looked tired and sad. "You understand," he says, and it's a statement, not a question. "A lot of people... don't understand that Mags was my family. That family doesn't just mean blood ties. If one more well-meaning person tells me... well. It doesn't matter."   
  
I nod, even though he can't see me. "I find that punching them in the stomach works best," I tell him, wanting him to know I understand but totally unable to talk about the stupid *feelings* part of it. "Hitting them in the jaw hurts your hand too much. The stomach is nice and soft, and it makes them throw up if you do it right."   
  
He actually laughs, even if it's brief and shaky. "I may actually need to remember that. Thank you. And thank you for the furs," he adds, voice softening again. "Mags made Michael a fur blanket out of them. She could still sew, even though she could hardly see the stitches any more."   
  
I'm glad he has that to remember her by. "You're welcome. Is, uh, is Annie there? Peeta wanted to talk to her."   
  
"She's here. And I think she'd like to talk to Peeta." There's a wry note in Finnick's voice. "And thank you for not asking if she's coping."   
  
I blink. "Even my manners aren't _that_ bad."  
  
"You're in the minority," Finnick says sourly. "The number of people who've been trying to find out - but I do think she'd like to talk to Peeta. Wait a minute."   
  
I hand off the phone to Peeta, and after a moment he smiles. "Hi, Annie," he says gently. "Katniss and I wanted to tell you and Finnick how sorry we are for your loss, and ask if there's anything we can do."   
  
I can't hear what she's saying, but from the way Peeta murmurs agreement and reassurances I'm pretty sure she's crying. It's almost the way he talks to me when I cry, and I feel strangely annoyed by it. I'm not jealous, of course, but...  
  
After talking a little about Michael, Peeta cocks his head. "Hi, Finnick - yeah, some rest would probably do her good. Listen, you might want to get someone to come in and cook for you for a while." He listens, then shakes his head. "No, I'm not saying that, but it's not something either of you _need_ to handle. Grief tends to kill the appetite, and I doubt either of you want to eat much right now, but you need to. Believe me, I know." He pauses again. "Because I do it all the time," he says firmly. "When Mrs Everdeen lost a patient, Prim and I would take some food around if we had it to spare. Neighbours usually do, at least enough to get them through the first few days, especially if there are kids to feed too." I can tell from his face that Finnick's protests are weakening. "Well, then tell her *you* can't face the kitchen. I'm guessing Mags taught you to cook, didn't she? Get someone whose food doesn't taste so much like hers. Yes, that actually does help."   
  
After a moment more, he smiles. "That's right. Tell her that nobody copes perfectly when a family-member dies. I've seen it happen a hundred times, I know what I'm talking about. Okay, I'll give the phone back." He hands me the phone, then gets up. "I'm going to go make cheese rolls," he says to me as I lift the phone to my ear. "A _lot_ of cheese rolls. I can send them on the train."   
  
"I never even thought of it," Finnick says to me, sounding a little stunned. "That we should... that needing help with that was... normal."   
  
"It is." I lean back in my chair. "You know about my mother. It's not usually that bad, but it happens. Annie probably won't mind if you tell her you can't face it either." I feel more sympathetic towards Annie now than I would have before, I think. I remember my flight to the lake, hiding from my own misery and despair. If it weren't for Prim, I'd have done it more often, this last year. And that's only the ordinary pressures of living - how much worse must the Games have been? If she runs away inside her own mind sometimes, who could blame her? Not me.   
  
"Probably not." Finnick sighs. "Thank you," he says again, his voice quiet. "For calling, and for... I don't know. Treating us like normal people. Not many people do."   
  
I smile a little. "Thank you for talking to me on the train," I say just as quietly. "That was... I needed that."   
  
"So did I," Finnick says, surprising me. "Like I said, not many people treat me like a normal person instead of Finnick Odair, Capitol Pet and Lothario." He sounds so bitter that it tightens my throat.   
  
I blink, something occurring to me for the first time. "Oh.... should I not have asked about, uh, romantic stuff? Was that rude? I mean, considering... that."  
  
He laughs, a sudden delighted sound that shatters the bitterness. "No, Katniss, it wasn't rude. You asked me because you assumed I knew about love... not sex, but love, because you'd seen me with my wife and could see that I loved her. It actually meant a lot to me that you thought that. I was glad you asked." I hear Annie's voice murmuring a question in the background, and Finnick chuckles again. "Annie wants to know why I'm laughing. Can I tell her?"   
  
I blush even with nobody there to see it. "Okay. But only her."   
  
"Of course." He doesn't bother to cover the phone. "Katniss just realised that asking me for romantic advice might be a little tactless, given my history." Annie murmurs inaudibly again, and I can hear Finnick's grin. "Yes, it only just now occurred to her." Another pause. "Yes, I like her too."   
  
I slide down in the chair, my face flaming. I don't know why it's so embarrassing to hear someone say they like me, but it is. It's almost worse than taking more than a year to figure out why I got so many weird looks over asking Finnick those things.   
  
"That's the first time I've seen her smile since Mags passed on." Finnick says, no longer laughing but sounding much better than he did when he first answered. "Thank you for letting me tell her. And don't be embarrassed about it," he adds in a gentler tone. "Really. You were so young when it all came out... it was a relief. I hoped that in time it would... that people would forget, or not know, but I didn't really believe it. But you did, and in a few more years, there will be plenty of kids who were too young to remember at all. I was happy about that."   
  
I am still squirming, but I can understand that. His dreadful story was paraded so publicly, all his secrets exposed - I'd want people to forget too. I can understand him wanting to forget, and wanting other people to forget. By the time Michael is going to school, likely none of his classmates will know that his father was forced to prostitute himself to protect Michael's mother and honorary grandmother. That must be a comfort. "Well... good, I guess. It's still embarrassing."   
  
"I know, I'm sorry I laughed at you. It's the first time I've felt like laughing since..." He swallows audibly. "She's lived with us since we got married. Everything here reminds us of her. Her chair, her teapot, her favourite books, her bedroom... There isn't a single room that doesn't remind us, but the thought of getting rid of her things is even worse."   
  
I nod, because I understand that. "It took Prim years to stop polishing my father's shaving mirror every night," I say quietly. "We sold nearly everything else, for food, but she couldn't bear to let go of that. I think she still has it."   
  
"I can understand that." He sighs. "It's nice to talk to someone who understands."   
  
It's pure impulse, but it feels right. "You could come and visit," I suggest tentatively. "Here, I mean. We have room, it's a big house. The leave are just about to turn, and that's pretty. And it would be... different."   
  
There's a long enough silence that I worry that I've crossed another line without noticing, but then Finnick lets out a little sigh. "I'll have to ask Annie," he says quietly. "But.. but that sounds good. Thank you."   
  
They arrive two weeks later, still drawn with grief. Only the week before I heard muttering about our continued residence in the Victor's Village. My mother is no longer there, tending new mothers and old people in her nursing house, so what right have we to live there?   
  
I was in the butcher shop, buying mutton for a treat - the shaggy horned sheep from Eight do well here, so there's plenty of it - and before I could say anything, Rooba turned on the mutterer to ask what, exactly, was wrong with Haymitch leaving his home to his family. She asked him how much food he brought to our Victor when he defied the Capitol for us, and the man - a miner I didn't know - slunk out shamefaced. But I knew that if one person was saying it where I could hear, plenty more would be saying it where I couldn't.   
  
I wonder what they will say about having Finnick staying with us, with the reputation Snow carefully crafted for him. Probably that we're having orgies or something.   
  
It doesn't matter. Finnick and Annie are so shattered by losing Mags, and Michael is only six months old and needs a lot of attention, and if there is one thing Peeta, Prim and I are all good at it's taking care of people. I don't realize that I'd missed it, or how much they had, until Finnick and Annie step off the train and we practically tackle them.   
  
Within ten minutes, they and their baggage are bundled into a cart we hired for the day and on their way to the Village. Half an hour after that, Michael is napping in a crib borrowed from the nursing house and Peeta is setting bowls of thick stew and warm cheese rolls in front of Finnick and Annie, all of us sitting down to an early supper. "Eat all of it," he says sternly. "You've both lost weight and you didn't have much to spare."   
  
Annie smiles shakily at him. "Thank you," she says softly. "It smells good."  
  
"It should. Specialty of District Twelve," he says, grinning at me. "Rabbit and squirrel with wild greens and katniss roots. Katniss brought the meat down yesterday afternoon and the vegetables this morning."   
  
"Squirrel? Really?" Finnick is already chewing. "I never had squirrel. There can't be much meat on them."   
  
"You'd be surprised." I take a bite too. It's good, as Peeta's cooking almost always is. "But don't let the rolls get cold, they're best when they're warm." I return Peeta's grin. "Peeta cooked the stew and the rolls, and Prim makes the cheese and grows the herbs. I don't get all the credit."   
  
Finnick and Annie are clearly hungry. They clean their plates as thoroughly as I do, and Finnick doesn't turn down seconds. We don't talk much during the meal, but when Finnick pushes his plate away and sighs Annie smiles at him. "Better?" she asks softly, and there is so much love in her face that I look away, feeling as if I've intruded on something private.   
  
"Much." He reaches over to clasp her hand gently. “You?"  
  
She nods. "No hovering." She looks at Peeta and smiles wistfully. "Everyone's afraid I won't take care of Michael properly," she adds, voice a little abrupt the way it is sometimes. "I couldn't turn around without someone 'just looking in'." She pauses for a minute, looking into space, and we wait. We warned Prim about that - from what Annie told Peeta, sometimes flashes of memory overtake reality for her, and she can't see or hear anything around her until it's over. It never lasts for more than a minute or two.   
  
After a moment she continues. "It was making me worse. Even I could tell. That's why I told Finnick we should visit. Neither of you ever treat me as if I'm crazy."   
  
Finnick smiles, a small, relieved smile. "They don't talk while you're out, either."   
  
"Annie told me she doesn't hear anything while she has a flashback," Peeta says, sounding startled. "What would be the point of talking?"  
  
"It's not as if we've never seen it before," Prim adds, surprising me. "Well, Peeta and I have. At least Annie's are quiet. Some of the miners who survived the big collapse six years ago are worse."   
  
Annie stares around the table and suddenly starts to cry. Finnick looks like he wants to, too. I'm not sure what to do, but Prim goes around the table to hug Annie gently. "It's okay," she says gently, and I am surer than ever that being a doctor is right for her. "Bad things have happened in Twelve, too. We know that some things don't ever really go away."   
  
It seems to be the right thing to say.   
  
Prim and I moved out of the big room so Finnick and Annie could have it. I took Haymitch's old room, naturally, and it feels strange to sleep without Prim's warmth beside me - or her cat hovering. I wake up too often, and I scold myself for disliking it. I have to get used to being lonely.   
  
During the days, Annie sits in the garden with Michael, or weeds, or takes lessons in baking from Peeta. Finnick spends a day or two letting everyone see the Real Live Victor, then retreats to the Victor's Village again, the lines around his mouth deep with unhappiness.   
  
After that, I take him hunting with me. He's never hunted game, but he's got potential and it doesn't take huge amounts of skill to walk a trapline. On his second day, I look up from re-setting a trap to see him standing in a patch of sunlight, his eyes closed and a strange peace on his face. "Finnick?"   
  
He opens his eyes and smiles at me. "I was just... listening. I didn't think anything could sound as... as clean, as right as the sea. But this does."   
  
There are still a few birds, and all the small sounds of the forest. I sit back on my heels, listening, and nod. "I always feel better out here," I tell him, because he understands it. "Away from people."   
  
He nods too. "You should visit us some day," he says, gazing up at the canopy. "Out on the sea, out of sight of land... it's something like this, and completely different. You feel so small..." He trails off, but he doesn't need to explain. We both understand.   
  
A week after that, I take him to my lake.   
  
"I've never brought anyone else here," I tell him, feeling oddly shy, when we've filled a basket with fish and are sitting on the rocks that overlook the water. He wanted to swim, until he put his foot in the water - the air has a bite to it now, and the lake is very cold. "My father brought me here when I was younger. Now it's... it's my place. Nobody can find me here."   
  
He nods. "It's good to have that," he says, his eyes distant. "Somewhere nobody can find you."   
  
I wonder how long he spent wishing for something like that, a place where even Snow couldn't find him. Perhaps that's why I decided to share it with him. Even on our way here, I wasn't sure why we were coming. "I might live out here one day," I tell him quietly. "I've thought about it. When Prim is gone, and Peeta gets married... when nobody needs me. Then I could come and live in the lake house."   
  
He glances sidelong at me, cocking his head like a curious bird. "Do you want that? To have nobody need you?"  
  
I swallow hard, looking down at the grey rock under me. "No. Sometimes. I don't know."   
  
He nods. "Sometimes," he echoes, as if he understands. "Don't we all, sometimes..." Then he sighs and smiles at me. "Well. Not me, not any more. Annie needs me, but it's... a good kind of need. And Michael..."   
  
I look away. "What's it like?" I ask, a little too abruptly. "Being a parent, I mean. Having a baby."   
  
"Terrifying." He is smiling slightly when I glance at him, but his eyes are distant. "Wonderful... but terrifying. There are so many ways I could let him down. So many things that could hurt him. Even with the Hunger Games gone, he could get sick, or drown, or... you don't know how frightening the world is. You think you do, you think you know fear... then you have a child, so helpless and small and *depending* on you for protection, and it's as if you never knew fear before."  
  
The words hit me like a blow to the stomach, and I have to swallow hard before I answer. "I know," I say very quietly.  
  
He looks at me, frowning, and then he nods. "Prim," he says softly.   
  
I nod, glad I don't need to explain. Strangely, I feel almost relieved. That oppressive weight of fear for Prim that still haunts me, now and then, the frantic desire to protect her - is that how a mother is supposed to feel? Or a father? Was that how they felt about us, before Dad died and Mom did too, inside where it didn't show? I have felt uneasy about my fierce, clinging love for Prim, which is so unlike the relationships between other siblings I know. If it is a natural thing, a motherly feeling, that's comforting.   
  
We sit quietly for a while - Finnick can be silent, and I like that - and then he leans his elbows on his knees and looks at me again. "Can I help?" he asks quietly.   
  
I blink at him. "Help with what?"  
  
He shrugs one shoulder. "You asked for my advice about love once before," he says quietly. "Could you use any more?"   
  
He knows that Peeta and I are still only friends. He knows that Gale and I rarely hunt together any more. I wish he didn't, as I look down at my hands. "I'm fine."   
  
"You're fine because you're fine or you're fine because you don't want to ask me?" His voice is kind, though I can't bring myself to look at him. "If it's because I laughed - I'm sorry. It was just - "  
  
"I know. But I shouldn't ask about..." I swallow, my throat tightening with embarrassment and fear. "About, you know..."   
  
He pauses. "About sex?" he asks, very carefully. "Katniss, you can ask. You obviously don't have anyone else you _can_ ask, and you know I liked that you asked me, last time."   
  
I shake my head, my face burning. I can't. I just can't.   
  
"It's something you're embarrassed to ask about?" he ventures.  
  
I nod.  
  
"Can I try to guess?"   
  
I nod again, sure he never will.   
  
He pauses, thinking. "You do know how babies - "  
  
"I know that part!" I blurt out, then have to turn my back on him because I'm so embarrassed.  
  
I hear cloth drag against stone as he shifts his position. "If something had.. happened to you..." he says delicately, "I don't think you'd be so afraid to talk to me about it, knowing what you know. So. Not that."  
  
I shake my head.  
  
"You're reluctant to get involved... or is it that you're reluctant to get involved with a boy?" He pauses, and for some reason it sounds as if he's smiling. "Is there... forgive me if I shock you, but would you rather be involved with a girl?"  
  
I turn around to stare at him, mouth open.   
  
He actually grins briefly at that. "From the stunned fish expression on your face, I'm going to guess that's a no."  
  
My mouth opens and closes a couple of times before I can make words come out. "I.. how... _what_?"  
  
"It happens. Some people prefer to love... and *love*... someone of their own sex." He shrugs. "You know, that was always one of the few good things about the Capitol? Men, women, both... it never mattered. I know it's different in most of the Districts."  
  
I shake my head, trying to imagine that. Ugh. It's even more unsettling than picturing myself with a boy. At least then I know what parts are supposed to go where. "No, that's not... I didn't even know that _happened_."  
  
He smiles crookedly. "It does. It's no big deal, try to remember that."   
  
The words escape me in a tangled rush. "But why would you - I mean, _why_? Why would you want to? At least if it's a man and a woman, they _have_ to, if they want kids, but..." I bite my tongue, flushing painfully, but it's too late. I see sudden comprehension in his eyes.   
  
He leans forward, eyes intent. "And you don't want to." It's not a question. "Oh. That... actually, that explains a lot."   
  
I'm so off-balance at that strange response that anger flares in my chest. "Oh, it does, does it?"  
  
He nods. "Most people... speculate, about me, at the very least," he says slowly. "I'm used to it. I can see it in the way they look at me, the way they... it still happens. But you don't. You're so... entirely unaware, in that way."   
  
I can almost feel my hackles going down. "And that made it easier for you?"  
  
He nods. "I couldn't pin down why I felt so comfortable with you," he admits, smiling crookedly. "But... it makes sense. I’m as irrelevant to you as I am to… oh, to Lyme and Flavia.” I blink at him, and he smiles. “They’ve been lovers for years. We’ve been friends for a long time - it’s easier for all of us when sex isn’t part of the equation.”   
  
That makes sense to me too. And knowing that that *awareness* makes him uncomfortable makes it easier to ask. “Is it because you love Annie? Is that what makes it… not awful?”  
  
Even I can tell the question is too personal, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He smiles and lets out a short breath that is almost a sigh but not quite. “Yes,” he says simply. “For both of us. She… has her own trauma, and I wasn’t sure it could ever be… not awful… for me again. But I love her, and she loves me. We trust each other, and that makes it all right. Not many people can understand that,” he adds, looking at me.   
  
“My mother told me that when you love someone, it’s different. I never told her that I didn’t want to,” I blurt out, looking out at the water again. “I never told anyone. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why it just makes my skin crawl, but - “  
  
“Some people just don’t,” he says gently. “I’ve known people like that. There was a Victor a couple of years after me, from Two… his name was Greave. Snow tried to put him to the same duties as me, but he just… couldn’t. He tried, but even the drugs Snow gave him couldn’t make him…” Finnick’s hand rises in a singularly eloquent gesture. “He didn’t live long after that. Snow didn’t tolerate being made to look foolish.”   
  
I allow a moment of silence for Greave before I venture to speak again. “So it just… doesn’t happen, for some people?”   
  
“Sometimes. Some people can only feel desire for someone they love, who they’re committed to.” When I look at him, Finnick is looking at me with a gentle, understanding expression. “That would… fit you, I think. You don’t like letting anyone get close to you, and sex is as close as it gets. If you were with someone you loved, who you could feel absolutely safe with, it might happen. Then again, it might not. I’m sorry, Katniss. I wish I could give you a definite answer.”   
  
I shrug, looking at the water again. "You did. You told me that it's not just me. That it happens." I hadn't realized how much that had come to bother me until the weight rolls off me. "It's not... everyone expected me to end up with Gale or Peeta. They've talked about marriage, and children, and I didn't understand why I didn't seem to be able to feel what everyone else does. Now I know. That helps."   
  
He lays a hand on my shoulder. "Don't write it off completely," he says kindly. "It might be that you haven't met the right person yet... or that you're just not ready to let anyone get close. But sex isn't compulsory, Katniss, don't ever let anyone tell you it is. If you don't want to, you don't. There's nothing wrong with that."   
  
I lean into his touch, as if he were Haymitch or Peeta. "Thank you." My voice is a little unsteady. "I thought there was something wrong with me, or..."   
  
He shifts closer, his arm settling comfortingly around my shoulder. And it is comforting because it's *safe*, I realize. As far as Finnick is concerned, I might as well be a little kid or a tree, entirely sexless. He doesn't want anything from me. "Katniss, there is nothing wrong with you," he says gently. "You've suffered trauma, and you've closed yourself off emotionally because of it. That happens. And maybe that's why you don't want intimacy, and maybe your body just doesn't have those urges. I don't know which, and it doesn't matter. All that matters is that you do what is right for you."   
  
I sniff a little. "I wish... sometimes I wish I _could_ feel that way," I admit very quietly. "People talk, about me and Peeta. If I could just feel the way he does, we could get married and then nobody would care that we live together. And... and he wouldn't marry someone else, and it wouldn't matter that Prim is going to..." My voice cracks, and I stop talking.   
  
Finnick sits with his arm around me for a while. "Then you have a couple of options," he says, and he sounds like he's smiling. "You could tell him what you've told me, and find out if he can understand. Or think about it for a while, see if knowing you have options make a difference. Or just kiss him and see if you feel anything."  
  
I pull away and stare at him. "Wouldn't that be... be unfair? To kiss him, knowing I probably won't feel anything? I mean, making him think I do, and then..."  
  
He shrugs. "I think he'd rather know, one way or the other." He smiles down at me. "Does the thought of kissing him make your skin crawl?"  
  
I think about it. "It makes me... nervous. Uncomfortable. But it doesn't feel - it's not like imagining kissing anyone else. That would just be - ugh. But Peeta..."   
  
I know then, though it doesn't occur to me until much later that it never occurred to me to kiss Gale. I love him as a friend, but I've never wished I could return his feelings for me. After three years of being family I can't imagine sharing a home, a life with someone who isn't Peeta.   
  
Finnick nods. "So kiss him and find out," he suggests, smiling at me. "If it doesn't work, _then_ you can tell him. That you just don't have those feelings. That if you *could* feel desire it would be for him, but you just don't. As reasons for being rejected go, that's not such a bad one."   
  
"And then at least we'll know, one way or the other." I swallow hard. "You're right. It... it's best to just know."   
  
If it's possible for that... sex... to seem other than intrusive and unpleasant, surely it would be Peeta who could make it that way. I trust him implicitly, and I love him more than anyone but Prim. Finnick is right. I should find out.  
  



	12. A Little Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been stuck on this chapter for so long! I finally got *something* semi-coherent together and I'm sorry if it's terrible but I honestly can't tell any more! I hope it isn't, though.

It seemed easy, when I was talking to Finnick at the lake. Just _try_  kissing Peeta, and if it's unpleasant, I can tell him that I just don't feel those things. Then everyone knows where they stand.

I can't even look at him without blushing when we get back. Finnick seems to understand, because he makes an effort to draw attention, playing with Michael and telling the adults funny stories about the new Senate and how much trouble they had at first. Even I laugh at the one about Beetee insisting on creating a law prohibiting Senators from physically attacking other Senators - pointing out that a room full of successful murderers must be quite intimidating for the few people, like Ms Rose from Twelve, who weren't soldiers or Victors.

Finnick doesn't bring it up again, as we hunt and fish and check traps - and, when the signs seem right, start tapping trees for maple sap. I'm grateful. I need time to think about this.

I have thought for so long that there was something wrong with me. That being in love meant desire, that I was cold and unloving because I didn't feel it. But now I know that this is a thing that happens. That it may have been loss and trauma that turned me cold, or that I may have been born that way, but that I am not the only one. It is... allowed... for me to feel this way.

It takes time for that to sink in. I am still turning it over in my mind when Finnick and Annie's visit comes to a close. Finnick must return to the Senate, and Annie is ready to visit with her fellow Victors. They aren't happy, of course, but the first rush of grief has had time to ease, and I think being with us comforted them.

Annie confirms it the night before they leave. We have spent the evening in music - Finnick, it turns out, can sing well, and Annie not badly. So we have traded mountain songs for sea songs, and it has been good.

While Prim is tucking Michael into bed and Finnick and Peeta are making tea, Annie turns to me. "Thank you for inviting us," she says quietly. "It was kind."

I am always embarrassed when I'm accused of kindness, so I feel myself blushing as I fiddle with the sleeve of the old sweater that once belonged to Haymitch. "It's no big deal."

"It is. You hardly know us, but you called. You offered us a haven. And when you were unhappy yourself, too." Annie looks at me, and for once her eyes are fully focused on me. "Prim told me about the things people are saying. People said things about me and Finnick too, you know, before we... After my Games, my family couldn't cope with me. They kept telling me to forget, but I couldn't. The nightmares wouldn't stop, and I was afraid of everything, and when they got angry it only got worse. So Mags and Finnick said I could live with them. They understood better." She strokes her shawl absently, and I wonder if Mags made it or bought it for her. It seems as comforting for her as my outsized sweater is for me. "And everyone said it was so Finnick could - he wouldn't have. He was always so kind, so gentle with me. He would never have hurt me."

I nod. "I know," I say quietly. "It must have been hard, knowing people were saying those things."

"It was. For him, not for me," she adds, surprising me. "I didn't even know then. I didn't find out until later. But it hurt him so much, and when Snow found out he was angry." Her voice trails away, and for a moment she stares at something far away in space and time. From the look on her face, I'm glad I don't know what it is. Then she shakes her head and shudders, and looks at me again. "But it was kind of you to think of us, when you were so unhappy. I'm glad Finnick could help you."

I tense. "What did he tell you?" I don't like the idea of anyone, even Annie, knowing the things I have told Finnick. "Oh, he didn't have to tell me. When you came back from that long day fishing, I knew you'd talked. And when I asked, he said he hoped he'd helped, that's all. Finnick wouldn't tell secrets." Annie reaches over to pat my hand. "You should visit us, one day. In summer, when you can swim in the sea. You'd like that."

"I would like that." Clumsily, I return the pat. "And if you ever want to visit again, you can. I know Peeta would like that."

She smiles brightly. "Oh, I'd like that too. Peeta is so nice. He said I could call and talk to him whenever people are fussing at me, if I want to. And I'm going to write to Corwin and Emily, and they'll write back. I want to know when the new baby comes, and I'm going to knit a blanket for it. Mags taught me to knit."

Peeta and Finnick come back in then, but the conversation stays with me. I am glad we were able to help them, especially Annie. She's fighting so hard to stay with Finnick and Michael, to be a good mother - I admire her for that. She isn't like my mother. She's struggling, she's not very good at it sometimes, but at least she's _trying_. That makes all the difference.

And Finnick... Finnick is my friend. He is the only friend I've made entirely on my own. Madge and I drifted together because of school, and Gale and I because we were hunters, but Finnick and I just... like each other. We can be silent together, or talk, and know that we need offer nothing we don't want to. It makes me realise how far apart Gale and I are now, and I wonder if I was ever this comfortable with him.

We miss them when they're gone. The house is too quiet, our table too empty, and Peeta becomes tense and unhappy again. I want to fix it, but I don't know how.

The maple syrup is even more successful than I'd hoped. I borrow the washing tubs and Prim scrubs them clean. The syrup is heavy, and I have to spend more money on hiring a donkey because I've tapped too many trees to keep up with alone. The donkey pays for himself and more, though, and Peeta takes a few days off from the bakery to watch the boiling sap and pour the finished syrup into jars and bottles. Word spreads quickly, and before I am half done tapping my trees people are coming to the house to buy. Peeta offers them a small discount if they bring their own jars or bottles, which keeps mine from running out.

The short season in autumn lasts only a couple of weeks, but when it is over every jar and bottle I have is full and I've already sold as much again, the single biggest sale being to the bakery. Peeta arranges that, and manages to convince his parents that he got them a special family price when we were actually desperate to get rid of the stuff we had no room to store.

Before we can scrub the sugary sweet smell out of our clothes, there is a wedding in Twelve. Doctor Cranbourne has won Hazelle despite Gale's objections - and I don't think it's just because she wants security for her children. The doctor is so kind, so dedicated to helping people and so gentle with them... I can see why she smiles when she looks at him. And he obviously adores her. We give them maple syrup as a wedding gift, so much of it that Hazelle protests, but I remind her how often Gale shared what he found in the forest with my family. This time, I will share my gleanings with his.Peeta, Prim and I help to sing them over the threshold, and so does Gale. When he looks at me afterwards, there is resentment in his gaze as well as what I am beginning to understand is yearning. He still wants me, though I have put him off for over a year since I found out how he felt.

I have to do something. I know I have to do something. But just the thought of it makes my stomach knot and my mouth dry out in panic. Gale has already drifted away from me because I don't feel the same way he does. Peeta is becoming bitter and distant too. I will lose them both if I keep avoiding this - and if I tell them the truth, I'll probably lose them both anyway. Everything is changing and my brief happiness at my success in earning money turns to ashes. I will lose everything no matter what I do. Even Prim will go away and leave me.

When that sinks in, a few days after the wedding, I barely manage to tell Peeta and Prim that I am going out hunting and not to worry before panic seizes me again. This time I spend nearly two full days at the lake, crying until I am too dry for tears or shaking until my teeth rattle. I have given everything I have to survival, since I was eleven. There is nothing left in me to hold me together through this.

When I come back, knowing I probably look as bad as I feel, I find Peeta and Prim at the table, both pinched and grey with worry. When they see me Prim starts to cry and Peeta covers his face with his hands. "I'm sorry," I tell them both, my voice cracked with long weeping. "I told you not to worry. I was fine." And then when their accusing stares are too much, I drop the fish I caught and the mushrooms I gathered and bolt for my room.

It is Peeta who comes after me, not Prim, which does not surprise me. I am older than Prim, almost as much of a mother to her as our mother was. She cannot scold me easily. But Peeta and I are equals. He comes in without knocking, closing the door behind him with quiet care. "Where were you?" he asks. and his voice is tight and shaking. I scared him, I *really* scared him, and guilt makes me curl up tighter on my bed, as if I might disappear if I can just make my balled up self small enough. "We were worried sick, Katniss. Gale and his men were out looking for you all yesterday."

"I told you not to worry," I say again, knowing how stupid it sounds. I don't move the pillow that is covering my head and face, shutting out the light. I don't need to. I've seen that look on his face too often lately. "I just... I just had to go."

"You could have died out there!" Peeta snaps, his control fraying noticeably. "You could have broken a leg, been set on by wild dogs - what were you thinking?!"

He deserves honesty, so I give it to him. "I wasn't. I was just running."

There is a moment's silence then, as if I've startled him, and after a moment I feel the bed dip as he sits down on the edge of it. "Running from what?" he asks quietly.

"Everything. I don't know." I hear his indrawn breath, I can *feel* him getting frustrated with my inarticulate excuses again, so I try harder. For him. "Do you remember when Prim dropped the big washtub and Annie nearly had a heart attack?"

I don't have to see him nodding. "I remember. Finnick called it a panic attack. Said she got them sometimes when there were loud noises."

"It felt like that," I tell him, face still hidden in my pillow. "I couldn't... I couldn't think, or... I just ran. I needed to be _away_."

"Away from us?" Peeta asks sadly, and I wonder if he means 'away from me'. I'm pretty sure he does. He knows I wouldn't run from Prim.

"Away from everything. Away from..." My throat tightens, but I make myself explain. "Everything's changing. _Everything_. And I just... couldn't stand it. I had to get away."

Very slowly, gentle as a leaf falling, his hand comes to rest on my foot. I can feel the warmth of it through my socks. "You were running away from change?"

"I know it sounds stupid." I curl up tighter. I want to tell him everything, but panic closes my throat. I hate myself for my cowardice, but losing him would be too much to bear.

He sighs. "It doesn't sound stupid. Just... just let us know you're going to be gone a while next time, okay?"

"I'll try." I swallow hard, my eyes burning again. "There's a place I go... it's pretty safe. I have a good hidey-hole and everything. There's a lake."

He sounds startled. "There are lakes in District Twelve?"

"Well, there's one. I mean, it's in the woods, but... yeah." I try to swallow down the tears that are making my voice husky. "I... my father used to take me there," I say very quietly. "When I was little. It's where I go when things are... are bad."

"I see." From the way his voice softens, I think he does. He loves his father, though Mr Mellark never protected him. I never talk about my father to him or to anyone, but I know Prim and Mom have told him things. He seems to understand, anyway. "Does Gale - "

"No. I never took him there." I swallow again. "The only person I ever took there was Finnick. He... understood. Needing a place where no-one can find you." Peeta squeezes my ankle gently. "And he's in Four, so he can't ruin it by going there when you don't want him to," he says gently.

I nod, head still buried under my pillow. "It's my place. Where no-one can find me." My voice sounds small and childish even to me, but Peeta squeezes my ankle again and doesn't laugh. "Nothing changes there."

"So it's a good place to hide from change. I get it." Peeta sighs. "Some things have to change, Katniss," he says softly. "They can't stay the same forever."

"I know that," I whisper. "That's why I ran."

My stupid fit of panic helps a little. I am still terrified of the inevitable change that is coming, but the fear is less overwhelming now. My weeping and shaking fits have purged it of some of its force and I can face it with the same grim endurance that supported me through my Reapings. To my own surprise, before the leaves have finished falling I am actually impatient. I want to get it over, like the Reaping, and be done and doomed.

I have never believed, as some do, in signs and omens and the other trappings of superstition. There was no nightmare warning before my father died. If it could have happened, it would have then. The dandelion I saw the day after Peeta gave us the bread was one part coincidence and one part simple luck, a luck I was surely owed after all I'd endured.

But I will never forget the day in late autumn when I was walking my trap lines. Fall is a good time for a trapper, when the animals are fat and their fur is thick. My traps had already netted me three rabbits and a beaver, and I was singing softly as I walked the lines. Mockingjays flitted from tree to tree around me, drawn by my song and singing snatches of tune with me. I remember when I walked these lines in silence, fearful of scaring off any possible prey. Now we had money and food and I was hunting for extras, not for survival, and I could sing to the birds the way my father did. He would like that. He would be glad that I can sing again, I know.

And then another sound whipped my head around. One mockingjay wasn't singing 'The Hanging Tree' with me, it was letting out a piercing two-toned cry, high-low, high-low. And then every single mockingjay, all of them, began to scream. High-low, high-low, high-low. For a moment it was just noise, sudden and frightening, and then I caught it.

My name. Kat-niss-Kat-niss-Kat-niss, over and over, in the high tones of panic - they can't enunciate words, not really, but they can mimic the pitch and duration and _sound_ of the cry. A voice I knew better than my own was calling for me, and the mockingjays somehow carried that frantic cry on to where I was. I don't know why I was so sure. But I was then, with the certainty that comes from my bones. Something terrible had happened _and Prim was calling for me_.

I have never, not even during the war, run as I ran then. I dropped my game bag where I stood and if my bow hadn't been on my shoulder I'd have dropped that too. I just bolted straight for the Meadow and home, ignoring my usual circuitous route. Prim was calling me.

I have no clear memory of that run, just desperate fear and branches dragging at me as I plunged on and on. It seemed to last forever and yet I was not entirely breathless yet when I reached the fence... and Prim. She'd crawled through the opening I'd shown her years ago but she'd been afraid to go further. She's standing with her back to the fence, under the first trees, crying and calling for me in a panicked voice. "Katniss! Katniss!"

I run to her, snatching her into my arms and holding her tightly. "I'm here. I'm here," I tell her, holding her tightly. "It's okay, it's okay, I'm here." She clings to me, crying hysterically, and I have to push her away and shake her a little. "Prim, what is it? What's wrong?"

She gulps, gazing at me with huge, frightened eyes, and drives a knife right into my heart. "It's Peeta," she manages between sobs. "The bakery..."

The bakery. The bakery where his mother is. The woman who's already tried to kill him once... or more than once, for all I know. The bakery where there are ovens that can explode, oils and liquids a one-legged boy could slip in and fall...

I don't wait for Prim to tell me what it is. It doesn't matter. All I need to know is where - the bakery - and who. Peeta. My Peeta. I may lose him to what I am, and what I can't be for him. I will _not_  lose him to a crazy woman or an exploding oven.

I leave Prim, crawl under the fence, and I run. I am across the Meadow and running down the street when I almost cannon into Darius. "Katniss!" He goes to grab my arm, then seems to realize I'm already going in the right direction. "I saw Prim come this way... come on. Bakery."

"I know. Peeta." I hate the necessity, but I slow down to a trot rather than a run. I need breath, and I'm not going to stop to catch it. "What happened?"

Darius shakes his head. "I shouldn't tell you."

"Why not?" I spare a second to glare at him.

"Because if I do I think you're going to kill her," he says bleakly. "Or get killed."

I suppose I always knew it was Peeta's mother. She's hated me since I hit her the way she was hitting him - no, she hated me even before that. She wouldn't even let me into the shop afterwards. And the talk must have had her on a slow boil for months... reputation seems to be the only thing that woman cares about.

Darius doesn't bother talking any more. Neither do I. We just head for the bakery.

There are people gathered in whispering clusters all around the square. Gale and a couple of the other policemen are gathered near the door. Gale is saying something I ignore in the soothing voice he saves for drunks and angry children, but he turns when he hears us coming and he grabs me when I try to push past him and drags me away from the doorway. "Are you crazy?" he hisses, shaking me. "Are you _trying_  to make this worse? If anything's going to make her go off it's seeing you."

"Gale, she's already _gone_  off. There was blood on that knife she was holding, you know that as well as I do," Darius whispers hotly. "Maybe Katniss - "

I never find out what he thinks about 'maybe Katniss'. Mirelle Mellark has a knife, and it has blood on it. She almost killed Peeta with a rolling pin. What kind of damage could she do with a knife? I know all too well.

Years ago, during the bombing, Gale tried to hold me back from running to Prim. Now he is trying to hold me back from running to Peeta. But I am no longer an under-fed fourteen-year-old with no idea what she's doing. Last time I bit and kicked and shrieked and lost precious minutes. This time I twist and slam my knee up into his groin hard enough that I hear him retching as I vault over him and bolt for the open door.

There is no-one in the front of the store. Just like last time, I vault over the counter and barrel through the door. Just like last time, I find Peeta on the floor with blood on him. But this time the blood isn't his, or I hope it isn't. He is kneeling in almost the same place, with tears pouring down his face as he holds a wadded up apron to a great bleeding wound in his father's belly, and I know at a glance that Danny Mellark is dead. I saw enough fatal wounds in the war. He is still breathing a little, but he is a dead man.

I have good hearing, and that saves me. While I was looking for Peeta his mother was looking for me, but the scuff of her shoes gives her away when she tries to come up behind me. She lunges at me with the knife, making a strange whistling noise that I recognise as the sound that comes when someone who's screamed themselves hoarse tries to scream again.

It's a bad mistake, I think as I turn to face her. I fought in the war when I was in my early teens and I know how to fight. I exercise more in a week than she does in a year, and I've had a year of good eating to put me in peak condition. She should have learned last time. I am not her husband, I am not one of her sons, I am not afraid of her and I have no qualms about hitting her. Faster than she can swing the knife I grab a steel bowl off a counter, knocking the knife aside and catching the side of her had on the backswing. "Drop it!" I shriek at her, fumbling for my bow. "Drop it, or - "

And that's my mistake, because she's faster than I thought and a little larger than I am and while I'm still pulling my bow off my shoulder she's on me. "Bitch!" she whistle-shrieks, eyes wide and staring. "All your fault... all of it... you and your mother... you destroyed this family! You poisoned everything!"

"Me?" I try to twist away from her grip, but she is terrifyingly strong. I've heard that mad people are strong, but I wasn't prepared for this, and my legs are already shaking with exhaustion. "You're the one who hit them! You're the one with the knife, you vicious, awful - "

I shouldn't have reminded her of the knife. She fumbles a little, but if I hadn't ducked my head at the last second I'd have lost an eye. As it is she gouges a deep slice along my temple and into my hairline, and I'm lucky she was going for a stab and not a cut across both eyes because a scalp cut would blind me with flowing blood even if she'd missed. As it is, I hardly notice the cut. Adrenaline is a good friend in times of crisis.

She had to let go of me with one had to aim her knife, and now it's her turn to make mistakes again. With an arm free I can punch her in the belly and the ribs, pushing her back until I can slam her body into the door, pushing her through and into the shop. I want to get her away from Peeta and Mr Mellark, and I manage that. But then she swings the knife again and I have to duck away. I turn to protect my blind spot - blood is getting in my eye on that side - and by sheer bad luck I slam my head into the edge of the counter. Dizzy, I remember old training and drop and roll, staying in motion to make myself a more difficult target, turning away from my bow so I can pull it off my shoulder in a smooth motion I've made a hundred times. It's in my hands when I stand, and there's an arrow between my fingers when I hear the shot. Then a hand grips my arm when I try to shake my eyes clear. "Easy, Katniss. It's done."

I expected it to be Gale, but it isn't. It's Darius, his face drawn. When I look down, Mrs Mellark is bleeding her life out on the floor just like her husband - but not like, because Darius knows what he's doing and shot her in the heart. She probably hardly had time to feel it.

I look up at Darius, too confused and shaken to put words together in that moment, and he shrugs. "If it had been Gale or you... it would have been complicated. I'm not in this."

I know he's right, and later I'll be grateful. For now I only take time to squeeze his arm briefly as I drop my bow, then I push my way back into the bakery's kitchen. I don't say anything here either. I have no words that are comforting, not here and now. I know this is my fault, in some part, just as it is Mr Mellark's for never standing up to his wife, and most of all Mrs Mellark's for letting her hatred of my mother and me poison Peeta's whole life.

But I drop to my knees beside him and put my arms around him, cradling his head to my shoulder as if he were Prim, and he turns away from his father's body to cling to me. I rock him a little, pressing my cheek to his fair, soft hair, and it is lucky for Doctor Cranbourne that I like him. Anyone else trying to take Peeta from my arms here and now would walk away bleeding, but the doctor wants to make sure he's not hurt. Even in my shocked, dazed state, I know this is a good idea and so I must let go. But it hurts more than the slash across my temple to do it. Peeta is hurting. He needs me. Nothing matters more.


	13. Everything Changes

Chapter 13: Everything Changes.

I am eighteen when Peeta leaves us.

We don't really know how to handle murder in Twelve. There hasn't been one since before the Rebellion, when Peacekeepers handled it. Murder, like theft and rape, has always been punished by death, so Darius is all right there. It wasn't as if there was any doubt that she'd done it, after all. But everyone's frightened and upset.

A couple of the police - not Gale, who I don't see - ask a few uncertain-sounding questions about how things happened, while Peeta and I are at the barrack-hospital. He has cuts on his arm and shoulder, I have the gash on my forehead, and the latest nurses - both female this time - have to work around my tight grip on his hand. The purple-haired one is snotty about it, the one with the feathers tattooed on her face seems understanding.

Prim arrives, hugging us both. She's the one who holds Peeta and dries his eyes with her handkerchief while I get stitches put in my face - she's the only person I'll relinquish him to, and even she has to insist.

Teff comes in, briefly, and hugs his little brother. "I found Andy," he says in a low voice. "Don't worry. We'll take care of everything at the bakery for a few days."

Peeta looks dazed. "Take care of... what do you mean?"

Teff shrugs and smiles. "We're not you. But we remember how to run the place. He can take a few days off and so can I."

It's nice of them. Of course Peeta will be the one to take over the bakery, we all knew that, but it's hard to think about that after something like this. There has been so little violence in our lives since the end of the war, aside from the interval in the Capitol, but that was still because of the war. War is such an impersonal thing compared to this, to a parent trying to murder a child...

We are all in shock, though Peeta is the worst. When we're patched up and the doctor says we can go, Teff finds a cart to haul the three of us back up to the Victor's Village and helps Prim and I to get Peeta inside. We pour hot tea and soup into him until he stops shaking, and then sit with our arms around him while he mourns. When he is as dry of tears as I was by the lake, I make him drink again before we take him and put him to bed. None of us talk much. We don't need to.

Prim goes to bed soon after, drawn and exhausted by Peeta's suffering - she can never shut other people's pain out. I think about going to retrieve my game bag, but the scavengers will have found and shredded it hours ago. Instead I wander around the house, straightening up, putting a pan of beans in to soak so we can cook them tomorrow, making mint tea for myself. Then I take a chair into the hall outside Peeta's room and wait.

My tea is long gone and I'm getting sleepy when I hear him cry out. I knew there would be nightmares. How could there not be?

He is already sitting up when I slip into his room, staring blankly ahead of him. It takes him a moment to wake up all the way, to focus his eyes on me as I sit on the bed beside him. "Katniss?"

I gather him into my arms as automatically as if he were Prim, waking from one of her terrible dreams. "I'm here." It is not only a desire to comfort him that makes me reach for him... I need it, too. That run from the Meadow to the bakery will feature in my own nightmares, I know. I thought I would lose him.

He holds on tightly, resting his chin on my shoulder, and I hear a shuddering breath by my ear that isn't quite a sob. "I was back in the bakery," he says quietly. "Not... not today. The time you took me. I haven't had that one in over a year."

I smooth his ruffled hair, my hand shaking a little with the warm, possessive joy of it. I wonder that I ever doubted that I loved Peeta. I may not desire him, or anyone, but he is mine, my love, my world, and I understand in a way I never did before why my mother nearly died after my father did. If I had lost Peeta, I wouldn't want to live either. Perhaps that's why I fought admitting it to myself so hard, why I have been so taken by panic whenever I think about losing him. I have tried so hard to keep myself safe, not to let anything hurt me, and nothing will ever be able to hurt me the way he can. Not even Prim. "I have it sometimes," I tell him quietly. "When I don't get there in time."

He nods against my shoulder. "That's how mine goes." He pulls away a little then, sitting up and wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt. "Sorry if I woke you up."

"You didn't." I shrug, not wanting him to know I was hovering over him like some kind of mother hen. "I was putting off going to bed. I knew I'd have nightmares too."

He nods again, drawing in a long, shaky breath and letting it out in a sigh. "I think I'll be having them for a while. But I'm okay now."

It's a dismissal, I know it, and I try not to let it show that it hurts. I have no right to push my company on him, especially not now. "You want some mint tea?" I ask instead, getting up off his bed. "I was going to have more."

He shakes his head. "No. I'm okay." He's clearly not, but he just as clearly wants to be alone with it, so I nod and slip away. When I come back to move the chair, I pretend I don't hear the faint weeping coming from behind the door.

He's in the kitchen when I go down the next morning. He's slept late, for him - he usually gets up around three, but it's past five now. He's sitting at the table staring into a cup of tea - the reddish cranberry and herb tea Madge makes, which is his favourite. When he hears me he looks up, and his ravaged face makes my heart ache. "Good morning." He gestures towards the stove. "The water should still be warm."

I nod, going to add wood to the fire-box and put more water in the kettle. "Thanks. I was going to go out and finish walking my trap-lines. See if there's anything left of my game bag, which there probably isn't. I'll need another one." I wrinkle my nose - a good leather bag like that is expensive. We're doing well now for District Twelve, but a big purchase like that is going to take a lot of my share of this season's syrup money.

He frowns. "What do you mean? What happened to yours?"

"I dropped it." Talking about it is somehow embarrassing, and remembering the circumstances makes me uncomfortable. Mockingjays repeat music, not screams. And how did that one bird somehow go straight from Prim to me? "Prim was calling, and she sounded scared. The bag would've slowed me down." That's true enough, and doesn't require me to talk about the strange behaviour of the birds.

"She went to find you," he says softly, looking down at his tea again.

This is so obvious that it doesn't merit an answer. I make myself a cup of tea and set some of Peeta's cheese rolls in the oven to warm, two for each of us. He won't want to eat, but he should. "Do you want another cup?"

He shakes his head - his cup is still more than half full. "Just... thinking about the things I have to do," he says quietly, and there's a bleak note in his voice that I hate. "I can't leave Teff and Andy to run the bakery. Today, maybe, but not after that. And there'll be funerals to arrange." He turns his cup around and around between his hands, staring into it. "I'll have to move," he says, as if it's just something else on the list, not the end of everything. "I can't leave the place empty - theft may still be illegal, but it happens. I can't leave all that food just sitting around by itself. Anyway, if I'm going to do all the baking from now on, I'll need to be there."

I freeze, clutching my cup until my knuckles whiten. "You're going to leave us?" He wouldn't have said it like that if he wanted Prim and I to go with him. And we would have! We are a family, aren't we? But we all know how much worse the gossip would be if we did...

He nods , and I think it's deliberate that he's not looking at me. "I've known I should for a while," he says, his voice still bleak. "With the talk, and... everything. But I didn't... anyway. I'll do it now. It'll help."

I know he's right - but the thought of losing him hurts so much that my voice cracks no matter how I try to keep it level. "I wish you didn't have to. It's not fair, just because people gossip - "

"It's not because of the damned gossip!" He bolts upright, face twisted with anger, and then almost overbalances. Standing up fast when you only have one leg is a bad idea.

He's angry with me, but that doesn't stop me from reaching out automatically to steady him. Even before I knew I loved him, I would always have reached out to him. But now he shoves my hands away, steadying himself on the table. "Don't. Just... don't."

My throat tightens. He's never pushed me away before - but how many times have I done it to him, when something hurt? I can't blame him for it now, and I try to keep my voice level. "I'm sorry."

He laughs, a horrible, humourless sound. "I know. I know you're sorry, Katniss. Every time you look at me lately, you look _sorry_. And it should help, but it doesn't."

I stare at him, starting to wonder if I've missed something. "I... Peeta, what are you talking about?"

"You don't want to tell me that you're never going to feel the way I do," he says, fumbling his crutches into place with hands that shake. "You care about me, but... not that way. And that should make it easier. You do care, just... not the way I want you to. You warned me. And I know I told you that was enough, and I thought it could be but it isn't. And you keep looking at me as if I'm _dying_  or something and I can't stand it, Katniss. I just... can't. I love you, I've loved you since I was five, and I can't stand spending every day with you, knowing..."

His voice is raw and aching with pain. How did I never realise? I knew how much loving hurt me, knowing I would lose him. I never thought, not for a moment, about what it would do to him, and guilt clogs my chest. "Peeta..."

His eyes are full of tears when he looks at me again. "I wish I could be angry at you," he says, hopelessly. "It would help if I could be angry, if I could hate you for it. But I can't, not really. I know you too well. I should have known you'd never be able to turn me down, not knowing it would hurt. You can't stand hurting anyone, can you?"

"Not you," I tell him, because it's true. But then I shake my head. "But Peeta, that's not it. I mean, it is, but it isn't."

"Then what _is_  it?" he demands, apparently managing to be a little angry at me despite how well he knows me. "Either you feel that way or you don't, Katniss! It's a simple question!"

"No it's not!" This wasn't how I wanted to tell him. I didn't _want_  to tell him at all. But I have given no thought to his hurt, occupied with my own, and I owe him this. "It's not simple and I couldn't talk about it, not to anyone. But I should tell you. So... just listen. Don't say anything. And don't look at me."

He stands staring at me for a moment, and he does understand me well. He can tell from the strain in my voice that this is something important, something hard, and slowly he moves over to the kitchen window and stands looking out, ostentatiously not looking in my direction. And so I tell him, in halting, stumbling words that hardly make sense even to me. About how I never could understand why anyone did those things. About wondering what was wrong with me, why I hadn't grown out of the childish dismissal of sex as weird and revolting the way everyone else did. About thinking that not desiring meant not loving, being so confused by my feelings for him and for Gale that were so different but included none of the signs I had been told meant romantic love.

About Finnick telling me that I wasn't a freak, that it just happened sometimes. That it didn't mean I couldn't love, or even be in love. That it might be different with someone I loved, but it might not, that there was no way to know. "He said I should just kiss you and see if I felt anything," I say quietly, still looking down at my hands. "I thought about it, but... I couldn't."

Peeta's voice is quiet and hesitant. He has kept his position by the window, though the way he's shifted on his crutches and the muscles in his back and shoulders have tensed has told me how hard it was for him. "Why? I wouldn't have minded."

I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. "I was scared that I wouldn't," I admit, and it is so hard to say. But because it is Peeta who always understands me, who loves me, because we are both worn too raw by emotion to be anything but honest, I can do it. "I wanted to, I thought... I thought if I could just... just feel _something_ , it might be enough, but what if I didn't and I had to tell you I didn't and you left and - " My voice finally breaks, then, and I rub my sleeve over my stinging eyes. "I wasn't feeling sorry for you," I add, fumbling the rolls out of the oven with shaking hands, before they burn. "I didn't realise It showed. But you were so unhappy about what people were saying, and I knew... I knew that you were going to leave. No matter how much I love you, it doesn't matter. I can't be what you want me to be, so you're going to leave. And..."

I didn't hear him approach, too focused on trying not to cry. But when I say that, my treacherous voice breaking again, he is standing close enough to take me in his arms, one of his crutches clattering to the floor and a roll following it as he gathers me up and holds me tightly. Perhaps I shouldn't let him, but I cling to him gratefully. I know he'll leave, but at least I can have this. And he isn't trying to kiss me or anything, just holding me the same way I held him yesterday. The way you hold someone when they're hurting, as if you can keep the hurt away if you keep your arms around them.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into my hair after a long moment of holding me close. "Oh, God, Katniss, I'm so sorry. I had no idea, I never thought... I _should_  have known!" he adds, and his voice is breaking too. "I know you better than anyone, I should have understood..."

" _I_  didn't understand. How could anyone else?" I rest my head on his broad shoulder, letting myself sniffle pathetically. "I just... don't feel that way. I wish I knew why, but Finnick says no-one really knows. Sometimes it's trauma, or a hormonal imbalance or something, but other times it just happens and nobody knows why. Some people just... don't."

Peeta nods, stroking my hair gently. "Why Finnick?" he asks me after a moment. "Why do you always ask him this stuff?"

"I didn't this time." I actually laugh a little, the way you do when something is a little funny and you need to laugh or you'll bawl. "He knew there was something wrong, and he asked me. And when I wouldn't tell him, he asked if he could guess and I said yes because I thought he never would and he did it in about four questions." I sigh a little, comforted by the hug. At least Peeta isn't repudiating me as some kind of freak. "He was nice about it... he said he was glad I talked to him. That he could help. I know he knew at least one person like me - a Victor who couldn't do, you know, the things Snow made them do. He died because he couldn't," I add bleakly. "I think it made Finnick feel better, knowing he could help this time."

Peeta holds me a little tighter when I mention the dead Victor. I think we're all still frightened by what they went through. Then he lets me go, slowly, so we can look at each other. "Katniss, I'm so sorry," he says again, and there are tears in his eyes. "I had no idea, and I must have made you feel so... trapped. Gale and I had you kind of surrounded, didn't we?"

"I know. And you don't, mostly." I meet his eyes then, not wanting him to feel bad. "You've never... pushed. And Gale hasn't much," I add, wanting to be fair. "Maybe a little, but nothing like what I've seen some other guys do." I dredge up a travesty of a smile from somewhere. "I just... I couldn't talk about it. I was so ashamed of it, I thought there was something wrong with me." I rub my sleeve across my eyes again, glad I'm wearing one of Haymitch's comforting sweaters. They're pretty absorbent. "I thought that because I didn't feel those things, then I didn't love you," I tell him, my voice coming out very small. "I mean, you're supposed to, that's what everyone says. So I didn't know why it hurt me so much to think of losing you."

He cups my cheek with one hand, a feather-soft touch that makes my heart ache. "So... you do love me," he says softly, and his eyes on my face seem to be searching for something. "But because you don't want to... well, to do those things..."

I swallow hard and nod. "I wish I could," I tell him, hoping he understands how much I mean it. "For you. I don't care otherwise, but... if I could just be like everyone else, we could be together and..." My voice breaks and wavers and fades away. There is too much I want to say, too much emotion rising and choking me. I have tried for over a year to resign myself to losing him. I know now that it was so much wasted effort, that nothing could resign me to this. I hate my own cold heart and stupid, unresponsive body for not letting me reach out to him, to love him as he deserves to be loved.

But Peeta sighs, a little exhalation that sounds more like relief than despair, and then he takes my hands in his. "And that's all?" he asks, and I'm confused because his voice sounds almost... hopeful. "That's the only reason you don't want to, to be with me?" He is hesitant, blushing as he says it, but the words actually come out of his mouth. "To marry me?"

"It's _enough_." I pull my hands out of his, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. "You have to, if you're married. That's the _point_  of being married, doing that and having children." My eyes sting and I wipe them on my sleeve again. "Don't act as if it's not a big deal, Peeta, it is, it's..."

"Not to me," he says quietly, and when I look up at him in surprise the bitterness and pain are completely gone from his face. I haven't seen him look so at peace in a long time. "Katniss, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want those things. But if I asked you to marry me, it would be because I love you. Because I've loved you since I was five and I heard you sing for the first time. Because I can't stand the thought of my life without you in it." When he takes my hands again, clasping them very gently between his, I don't pull away. "The way I see it, I'll never have those things anyway," he says, holding my eyes with his. "I couldn't marry anyone else, loving you. That wouldn't be fair to either of us - and yesterday I saw how it ends," he adds, grief shadowing his face again. "My father loved your mother, not mine... and she knew it. Not at first, but soon enough. I think... I think that was behind a lot of what happened after. The way she was."

I shiver, remembering the look on Mrs Mellark's face when she came at me with that knife. If Peeta's right, her bitter hatred of everything connected with me and my mother, even of her own sons, makes a lot more sense. "But..."

His thumbs move gently over the backs of my hands. "Katniss, I would rather be with you, loving you and know you love me, without sex, than with anyone else with it," he says, and the intensity of meaning in his voice makes me tremble. "If you ever _did_  kiss me and, and feel something, I'd be thrilled... but I can live without that. I'm not sure I can live without you."

Tears are pouring down my face now, as this miraculous, impossible boy with the bread brushes aside my inability to desire him as if it's nothing. "But... but you want children," I whisper, clinging to his hands until my knuckles whiten. He's probably losing circulation in his fingers, but I can't loosen my grip in case he disappears, in case this is an impossible dream I'll wake from.

"I do. And I think you'd be a good mother," he says steadily. "But there are always orphans, Katniss. The mines will always be dangerous. People will always get sick in winter, or get lost in the snow, even now that there's enough food. If we want children, we won't have trouble finding them. Better us than the Community Home, right?"

I nod slowly, because his point is inarguable. "I was so scared of the Home when I was young. I was afraid that if they found out my mother couldn't take care of us, they'd take us there. Take Prim. It would have killed her." And how many more children like Prim have no big sister who was lucky enough to have a hunting father to teach her the way of it?

I spent years focused entirely on my own family, on the few people I love, because I had to. I had to keep us alive, and it took everything I had to do that. But for the last year, I've been having to learn how to live without the struggle for survival. I have the maple trees now, and I am still one of the only hunters. Furs are worth more than before, and tapping the maples alone would keep me and my family fed. And Peeta has the bakery, which could support a family of growing boys even when times were at their hardest. We could do it. Any child we took in would eat well, learn any one of several good trades... for the first time, I like the idea of children. I would not have to fear the Games or starvation for them. I will never let them go down the mine for their bread, I can save them from that too. Nothing is guaranteed, of course, but they would have a better shot than almost any child in Twelve.

I could love them without the terrible choking fear that was always part of loving Prim, knowing that I couldn't protect her.

"I'd like that," I tell him, meaning it. "But wouldn't you mind that they weren't yours?"

He shrugs. "You adopted me. We adopted Haymitch. It's always worked for us before, right?"  

I nod slowly. "But... Peeta, it doesn't seem fair to you. I know you want to, to do that, and you - "

"I think it's up to me whether or not it's fair to me, don't you?" He tips my face up and kisses my forehead gently. "Katniss, all I want is to be with you, on whatever terms you set. Whatever feels right to you."

My throat tightens again. I thought he might understand enough not to blame me for not wanting him. The idea that he'd just ignore the whole thing and still want to marry me never even crossed my mind. It's patently absurd... isn't it? And yet here I am in his arms, with him telling me it doesn't matter, that he loves me enough to take whatever I am willing to offer him and ask for nothing more. "Then..." My voice cracks and wavers embarrassingly. "Then maybe you should ask me properly, instead of talking about _if_  you asked me to marry you or something."

He laughs a little shakily. "All right. Will you forgive me if I don't go down on one knee?"

"I suppose so." I sigh a little, to show it's a sacrifice. "But only because you'd fall and hurt yourself if you tried."

"True." He draws me close again, his free arm around my waist, the other hand letting go of the crutch wedged under his arm to cup my cheek. "Katniss Everdeen," he says solemnly, but with a kindling joy in his eyes that leaves me quivering and breathless, "I know we're both young, but we've been through a lot together. I think we'd make each other happy. Will you marry me?"

I never daydreamed about the day a boy would ask me to marry him the way a lot of girls do. The ones who do never mentioned crying, or having your nose run because you're crying, but I have to sniffle before I can speak clearly. "Well, I still think you're crazy and you could do better. But all right." Before I can lose my nerve, I push on. "And I want to try kissing you now. To see what it's like."

For some reason he laughs at that, but he leans in to kiss me as well. I can't help tensing, wondering if I _will_  feel anything - feel what, anyway? I don't even know what I'm hoping for. But when he feels my tension and tries to pull away I grip his sweater and kiss him.

It's nice, I discover. His lips are soft and warm, and the little soft touches don't make me feel unsettled or repulsed at all. I don't want to throw him down and have my way with him, but I definitely want more kisses.

When he draws back to look at me searchingly, I smile up at him, and he smiles tentatively back. "I like that," I tell him, glad that I can. "I thought it would be... uncomfortable, but it's not."

"Good." He kisses me again, a brief sweet thing, and then draws away. "I like it too." He looks around for his other crutch, and points. "Would you mind?"

As I have a hundred times, I bend to pick up the fallen crutch. It's hard for him to bend over, especially with only one support. "Here."

He moves back to the table, and I retrieve the cold rolls and set them to heat all over again. I feel giddy. An hour ago I was trying not to think about my inevitable loss. Now I seem to be engaged to a baker's boy who claims he doesn't care that I don't want sex with him. It's not until I burn my hand a little on the edge of the oven door that I'm sure I am not dreaming. But when I look up at Peeta, he's frowning. "What is it?"

"Nothing." He sighs, taking a gulp of the tea that must be cold by now. "Just wondering what people are going to say."

I scowl, thinking about that. "Oh." It was bad enough before. If we announce that we're engaged not twenty-four hours after his mother murdered his father... even I think that that doesn't sound quite right. "We shouldn't tell anyone," I decide. "I mean, not for a while."

Peeta rubs a hand over his chin thoughtfully, a gesture I think he picked up from Haymitch. "That... would probably be better," he admits. "It's not that I want to keep it a secret, but - "

"I know." I take his cup, tipping away the rest of the cold tea and starting to make more. "But it would be... disrespectful... to announce it right away. And everyone would think they were right about us."

He nods. "I still need to move," he says quietly. "In the next day or two. I wasn't just doing it to get away from you."

"I know." He sounds so worried that I go over to him and bend to give him another kiss. He seems pleased. "I do know, Peeta. You have to go to the bakery. And we'll miss you. But..." I find myself blushing again. "But it won't be for too long, will it?"

He reaches out to take my hand. "Not for too long," he says softly, and even drawn by grief he seems happier than I've seen him in a long time. "And once we are married, you and Prim can come to the bakery too. It's not as nice as this house," he adds, unnecessarily. "But it'll be ours. If you think Prim will want to come," he adds, suddenly hesitant. "I mean, you know I'd like her to live with us, at least while your mother's away, but will she want to?"

"Of course I will." We both swing around to see Prim standing in the doorway, half-hidden in the shadows. Her eyes are full of tears, but she's smiling. "We're family, aren't we?"

I glare at her. "How long have you been standing there?" She walks over and hugs me, resting her head on my shoulder. "Only for a minute. When you kissed him at the table. I didn't want to interrupt."

At least she didn't hear any of the more embarrassing confessions. I hug her back, kissing her temple. "So you like it?"

"So much!" She kisses my cheek and then goes to hug and kiss Peeta as well. "I've been hoping for so long. I want you both to be happy."

"And you think we will be?" Peeta smiles up at her, and I am reminded suddenly and sharply of that first morning when he was ours, when he smiled at Prim so warmly and I was so relieved that I wasn't alone. I couldn't have imagined this, then, but I have learned to recognise happiness and relief when I feel them.

"Of course you will." Prim grins, looking from him to me and back again. "The two of you have been what Katniss calls stupid-in-love for years. I've _seen_  the way you look at each other when the other one isn't looking. And the way you talk about each other. And the way you act like an old married couple most of the time."

Peeta is a little pink, but I'm sure I'm blushing scarlet. "Prim!"

"You do!" She laughs at me, but she comes to hug me again to take the sting out of it. "I'm glad," she says softly. "Truly. I've worried so much about you - you were so scared to risk loving anyone but me that I was afraid you'd never be able to tell him."

"It was close," I admit, hugging her and looking at Peeta over her shoulder. "But he cheated. He started talking about feelings while he was still hurting and I couldn't run away and leave him."

Prim laughs again. "That would work." Then she sobers. "But your timing stinks. People are going to say horrible things."

We are all agreed on that. Over breakfast, we discuss what we should do. Prim's suggestion, which sounds good to Peeta and I, is that he move to the bakery, wait a little while, and then begin overtly courting me. Prim can confide in a few of her closest friends that _she'd_  known for ages, but that Peeta would never have breathed a word to me of his feelings while he was living with us and depending on us. Now he has a business and a home of his own, independent of me, and so he can court me with his pride intact.

When I look at Peeta, I know it's more than a little true. We have always been partners in this house, and he knew I relied on him as much as he relied on me... but it matters to him that people will _know_  he isn't my helpless dependent. That he had something to offer me. I understand that. I have my pride, too.

After breakfast, we head down to the town together. When we get there, Peeta goes to the bakery to talk to Andy and Teff about making funeral arrangements. Prim goes to work at the clinic. And I take a bottle of syrup and some dried blackberries to the Mayor's house, knocking on the kitchen door.

Madge looks a little annoyed when she opens the door, but as soon as she sees me she relaxes. "Katniss. Come in."

"I'm sorry if it's too early." I do sometimes forget that not everyone has spent years rising at or before dawn to hunt or bake. "But I... need to talk to you."

Madge nods with her usual serene understanding. "After yesterday? Of course you do." She waves me into the kitchen and tells me to sit down while she finishes making up two breakfasts on trays. "Dad's arthritis is getting really bad," she explains when she sees me watching. "I make him stay in bed as long as I can in the morning, where it's warm. He and Mom like spending the time together, and I have time to get things done."

I nod in understanding. "Can I help?"

"No, I have it." She takes the trays up, one at a time. I remember when I was younger, wondering what rich people - rich for District Twelve, at least - ate at meals. If anything the breakfast is inferior to the one I had an hour ago, with plain rolls instead of the cheese and herb ones Peeta makes accompanying the herb tea. We had some leftover stew, too, but on the other hand, the mayor and his wife have butter. I like butter, though I rarely spend money on it. It's too wasteful. The soft cheese Prim makes is better on bread, anyway. Madge comes back and gets out two more cups. "Tea?"

"Please. Oh, and I brought you something." I offer her the small package of dried blackberries, which I'd been holding back against emergencies. "Prim likes blackberries. Can you make a tea out of them?"

Madge takes the package, looking thoughtful. "Of course. But you didn't come all the way here this early to ask for tea."

"And to pay for it," I say firmly, putting the bottle of syrup on the table. "Although I'll need the bottle back when it's empty."

She nods. I love Madge at moments like this, when she doesn't argue about things like payment and owing. "Of course. I'll have the tea for you in a few days." She pours tea for both of us - black tea, this early, but flavoured with pieces of strawberries and something else I can't identify. Orange, maybe. We don't get many oranges here, even now - I haven't tasted one since the one my father bought for New Year long ago. "So what is it?" she asks me, when we've both tasted the tea.

I don't know how to begin, but I have to start somewhere. "You know about yesterday?"

Madge nods. "Mrs Mellark finally snapped," she says without fuss. "Murdered Mr Mellark and tried to kill Peeta, but you went charging in and rescued him again." She pauses and smiles slightly. "Putting Gale in the hospital on the way."

"I did not!" I haven't given Gale a thought since I took Peeta in my arms yesterday, and it takes me a moment to remember exactly what happened. "I kneed him in the crotch, that's all."

Madge actually chuckles. "Katniss, you kneed him so hard that he was retching for ten minutes and needed medical attention."

I stare at her. "I didn't!.... did I?"

"You did. I understand there was some very impressive swelling." Madge looks very amused, and I remember that she and Gale have never liked each other. "He got between you and Peeta, didn't he?"

I nod, my face heating up. "He was trying to hold me back, and Peeta needed me."

"Practically self-inflicted, then." Madge nods and offers me one of the rolls.

I wave it away, and when she raises an eyebrow I know what she's asking. I will drink her tea, but gifts of food are a big deal in Twelve after our years of starvation. She thinks I am rejecting her food because it is charity. "I ate breakfast less than an hour ago. Peeta's cheese rolls and stew." We no longer go hungry in my house - though I am going to miss Peeta's cooking terribly.

"Ah." She nods, taking one of the rolls herself now that it won't be rude. "So yes, I know about yesterday." She cocks her head, watching me thoughtfully. "Knowing you might lose someone can... make a difference," she says, offering me a conversational opening without beating me over the head with it. Madge is a good friend.

"It can." I look down at my tea, my blush showing no signs of abating. "But I already knew. I mean, that I felt... you know."

"Yes," Madge says quietly. "I knew. I didn't think you did."

"It was... complicated. You know I never wanted children, or..." I wave a hand vaguely. "Keeping Prim alive was so hard. I couldn't imagine putting myself through it again with another kid. First there was the Games, and then the starving years, and... everything." Madge nods silently, and her calm attention is soothing. Whatever I tell her, she won't make a fuss. There will be no tears or accusations here. "Prim says I'm scared to let myself love people in case I get hurt, I suppose that's part of it."

Madge nods again, swallowing a bite of her roll. "You shut off your emotions a lot after your father died," she says, with a sort of clinical interest. "I noticed, but you obviously didn't want to talk about it so I didn't bring it up."

I blow out a sigh. "Why is it that everyone else always knows what's going on with me before I do?" I ask grumpily.

Madge chuckles. "Because you don't like thinking about your feelings," she says simply. "The rest of us get time for a pretty good look while you're running away with your hands over your ears."

That makes me laugh too, because it's a funny image and so very, very accurate. That's exactly how I handle feelings most of the time. "Yeah, well... I talked to Finnick a few times, about relationships and stuff." Her eyes widen and I roll mine. "Oh, don't you start. We all know what Snow did to him, but that doesn't mean he can't talk about feelings and... and everything. He said it was nice that I asked him because I'd seen him with Annie. I figured that someone as in love as that must know something _about_  being in love."

Madge nods, though she still looks a little amused. "Only you. I take it he helped?"

"He told me a lot I didn't know," I tell her, because it's true and because even though she's one of my closest friends I am _not_  going to tell her my humiliating secret. "About relationships and... stuff." I sip my tea again, flailing a little desperately for examples that don't relate directly to me. For some reason my memories focus on that fairly closely. "He said customs vary a lot more between districts than anyone thought. You know, wedding customs and stuff. And kinds of relationships. Did you know that in the Capitol men and women can get married to each other? I mean, two men or two women can get married. I never heard that." She is looking at me with an odd expression and I blush again. "I didn't even know that happened," I admit. "Peeta did - I think he asked me once, if that was why I didn't want to go out with him, but I didn't know what he meant until Finnick explained it later."

"Yes," Madge says mildly. "Peeta knows that happens... not getting married, maybe, but... the preference."

"Well, someone could have told me," I say grumpily. "I mean, not that I really wanted to know, but..." I am tactless, thoughtless, and a complete emotional illiterate, but I'm not entirely stupid. With Madge sitting there, one eyebrow slowly creeping up, I remember what she said. That Peeta knows. How would she know that Peeta knows? Unless... "Oh."

Madge is blushing too, now. "Yes." There's a defensive edge to her expression, but she isn't nearly as unsettled as I would be in her shoes. "Does that bother you?"

I am bewildered by the question. "Why would it? I mean, I don't really understand why you'd want to, but..." My mouth has dug the hole, there is nothing to do but throw myself in. "But. Uh. I never really saw the appeal of, you know. That. With anyone. So I wouldn't know."

Madge blinks a little. "What, not at all?"

I shake my head. "That was why I kept pushing Peeta away," I admit, and it's almost a relief to be able to say it. I have no intention of telling anyone else, ever, but now that I've stumbled on her secret it's easier to make it an exchange of confidences. "I knew he'd... well, want to do that. And want children, too. And I just couldn't."

Madge reaches across the table, taking my hand gently. "I'd like to have children," she says softly. "But I couldn't, either. Not with a man. So that's that." We have always understood each other.

I squeeze her hand silently. "Peeta suggested taking children from the Community Home," I blurt out, wanting to share the new hope he has given me. "I mean, they'd be better off than they are _there_ , and it's not like they want them."

"Peeta suggested..." Madge blinks at him. "He knows?"

I hastily hide my face behind my mug, taking a gulp of tea that's too big and makes me cough. When I've finished trying to clear my throat, I have no further escape. "I told him, this morning. That... that I did love him, but that I couldn't... that he should find someone else. Someone who could. And he said..." I swallow hard, my eyes prickling at the memory. "He said that it didn't matter. That he'd rather be with me, without that, than be alone... and he would be, because he couldn't marry someone else when he was in love with me because that's what went wrong with _his_  parents and after yesterday..."

Madge nods, and then she smiles shyly at me. "Delly and I have a plan. Now that we're done with school, she's going to move in to... to help me look after my parents. And so on."

"Delly?" She nods, and before I can stop myself my nose wrinkles and I blurt out the first thing that enters my head. "But she's so *chirpy*. All the time. Doesn't it get annoying?"

Madge laughs, a full-throated and strangely joyful laugh, and she rises and comes around the table to hug me. "I should have known," she says, smiling affectionately at me. "I really should have. I tell you that I'm in love with a girl, and your first reaction isn't 'you freak' or 'but she's not even pretty' but 'isn't the chirpiness annoying'?"

"Well, it would drive me mad," I say honestly, not sure if what she said was a compliment or a criticism. "Prim and Peeta are bad enough - especially both of them at once - but they don't _c_ _hirp_. Or giggle."

"I like it." Madge shakes her head, smiling, and sits down again. "I should have known you wouldn't care."

"Yes, you should. Not that I think you should have told me," I add hastily. "It's none of my business. And we've never pried, that's why we're still speaking. But you should have known I wouldn't care if you _did_  tell me."

"I'll keep it in mind next time. So. You and Peeta have an official understanding now?" I waver a hand back and forth. "Sort of. I mean, we do, but... there's been so much gossip already, and it really upsets Peeta and Prim. And they don't just hit people like I do," I add, remembering how I've been handling the talking. "They're too polite."

"It's a social handicap," Madge agrees blandly. "So what _are_  you going to do?" I tell her, and she nods slowly. "It's a good plan," she says slowly. "It's certainly what Peeta would do, waiting until he's out of the house to start courting you properly, if he was worried about your reputation."

I frown. "Are you saying he isn't?" I am almost sure that's an insult to Peeta.

Madge smiles slightly. "He knows there's no need to be. But it does matter." She cocks her head, considering. "Have you considered using the truth?"

By the time I leave, Madge has a plan for a counter-campaign of gossip. It is true that Peeta's mother hated me and my family, and never tried to hide it. What could be more reasonable than that Peeta and I were held back from becoming involved by our fear of how she would react? At best, Madge suggests, she would have thrown him out of the bakery and we would have lost that income, something no sane person in Twelve would risk. At worst... well, yesterday was the worst, and knowing how dangerous she was, who could blame us for never daring to confess our feelings even to each other?

Madge assures me that Delly will have the 'real' story in circulation by tomorrow. Everyone knows she chatters, and that she might, through Madge, have heard more than anyone else. Her sympathy will even be entirely genuine - besides the fact that she likes almost everyone and wants them to be happy, she of all people understands being kept apart from the person she loves by fear of reprisals.

Two days later, Peeta moves into the bakery. I know it's only temporary, I know that he is still _mine_ , but I am ridiculously upset anyway. Prim and I helped him bring over his few possessions - it takes three bags now, not one, at least half of the space taken up by his drawings, from the early charcoal sketches to the books of clean white paper he spends his spare coins on now, that he fills with beauty and colour with pencils or watercolour paints.

I pick up one of them, going through a set of flower studies, and my eyes sting. Tonight he won't be there. Tonight I will sleep in the room I still think of as Haymitch's, not mine, because I miss him, and Peeta won't be upstairs. He won't be there to make tea in the morning, or sing with me in the evenings.

"It's okay." He settles an arm around my shoulder, drawing me close. We're alone in the bedroom for the moment - Teff and Eve just left, taking the old clothes that they can use and Peeta doesn't need and a few personal mementoes, and Andy and Prim are downstairs. "I'm not far. I'll see you every day."

"But you won't be there." I turn into his arms, holding on tightly and resting my head on his shoulder. "I hate it already."

"So do I." He strokes my hair, holding me close. "But it's not forever." He kisses my temple gently. "Just a few months. And then, if you still want to in spring - "

"I will." I lift my head to kiss him fiercely. I like kissing him, and it seems so unfair that I've only just discovered this as we're about to lose most of our chances. "If I haven't starved to death because there's nobody to cook for me any more."

He smiles and kisses me back. "Prim will manage fine." Then he sighs and rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I like this, too, the intimacy of it, and I snuggle against him. "It's been so long since this was home," he says softly. "It's not going to feel like home until you're here with me, not really."

"The Village house won't feel right without you, either." I command my voice not to wobble and it doesn't... mostly. "Visit. A lot."

"I will. You too." He kisses me again, a slow sweet thing that makes me feel foolishly happy even though he'll be so far away. "Take care of Prim."

"I always do." I give him a little shove, smiling at him. "For way longer than you."

"Not that much longer, if you count from the bread." He looks around the room and then at me, and I know he's imagining us sharing it, never having to be apart again.

I like that idea too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When reading Katniss/Peeta fic, I've found that I almost never see Madge, Katniss's only female friend, except as a love interest for Gale because apparently Gale cannot Lose The Girl without being supplied with another Girl so he doesn't have to Endure Loneliness Or the Company Of His Right Hand. 
> 
> Therefore in my story Madge is a lesbian because frankly she deserves better than being a convenient place to stick Gale. And Delly is, according to Katniss, the nicest person in District Twelve. Madge *deserves* the nicest person in District Twelve after all that Broody Manpain.


	14. Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas, Solstice, Hanukkah, or whatever you celebrate - here is some resolution and happiness for Peeta and Katniss for the holidays. (After Mockingjay, the poor lambs deserve it and so do we)

I don't know how old I was when Gale first started wanting me to be his girlfriend, but I know I am eighteen when it ends.

After helping Peeta move and kissing him goodbye one more time, I know I can't put it off any more. I have to talk to Gale. Both Peeta and Prim told me I should wait a day or two, until the pain diminished a bit and he could face me on his feet without whimpering. Gale, too, has his his pride. So I walk down to the Seam, to the house he has lived in alone since his mother's wedding. I don't bring anything. I don't think this is going to be that sort of conversation.

It feels a little strange to be in the Seam again, after two years in the Victor's Village. I don't like that it feels strange. This was my home. My place, where I belonged. The Victor's Village was only temporary, because of Haymitch and the nursing house, I always knew that deep down. I thought I might come back to the Seam one day, when Prim didn't need me any more. But I will never live here again. When I leave the Village, it will be to move to town and the upper floors of the bakery. That will feel strange too, at first, but anywhere Peeta and Prim are is home enough for me.

I wish I hadn't thought of that just now. I am afraid I might be blushing when the door opens and Gale looks out. When he sees me he scowls. "What do you want?"

"To apologize." I look up at him. I don't know if it's finally accepting how I feel about Peeta, or all the kissing we've been doing, but for the first time I am genuinely aware that Gale is handsome, broad-shouldered and muscular, the sort of boy girls giggle over in corners. I am no more physically aware of him than ever - I certainly don't want to kiss _h_ _im_  - but now that I am letting myself, I can see how someone else might want to.

"Fine. Apology accepted. Now go away." He scowls and tries to slam the door, but I was expecting that and have a stick ready to jam into the opening. Gale's temper is... predictable. Bad but predictable. "Damn it, Katniss, don't - "

"Either let me in, or I'll shout what I have to say through the window," I tell him, scowling right back.

It's a mostly empty threat - that would be far too embarrassing - but Gale isn't willing to risk it. He curses and pulls the door open again, turning and limping towards the stove. I feel guilty, seeing that limp - I truly hadn't meant to hit him so hard that he'd still be in pain days later. I hadn't thought I _could_  hit that hard, as small as I am compared to him. "I really am sorry," I tell him quietly. "I didn't mean - I just wanted you to let go."

"You could have just asked me," he snaps, going to fill an iron kettle that doesn't need filling, clearly avoiding having to look at me.

I snort. "Gale, we both know that if I'd asked you, you'd have ignored me. Don't pretend."

He makes a wordless grumbling noise, by which I know I'm right and he doesn't want to admit it. "So you decided to jump right to humiliating me in front of half the town?" he snaps instead, wrenching the tap on and watching water overflow down the kettle's sides.

I shrug, even though he isn't looking at me. "Well, I tried biting last time, and that took too long."

"Last time?" He turns around, anger tinged with bewilderment. "What do you..." He trails off, and I see him remember. "During the bombardment? Katniss, that was more than four years ago!"

Only four? It feels like a lifetime. A lifetime of caring for my family in partnership with Peeta, letting myself sing again, finding and losing Haymitch, fighting the Capitol and somehow very nearly winning... how can it only be four years? But it is, and I push the foolish thought aside. "You tried to hold me back then, too. If you hadn't, I might have reached Prim in time. Peeta might not have lost his leg. I wasn't going to risk him losing more this time."

Gale's face tightens, and the anger is edged with bitter hurt. I ache to see him in pain - Peeta's right, I realize, I hate hurting people. Especially the few I actually care about. But I don't regret my choice. Gale and I have grown apart, and though he'll always be important to me I can live without him. I cannot bear to live without Peeta. "I guess you've made your choice, then." His voice is harsh and aching with loss.

I nod. "Yes." I wish I could think of a nicer way to say it, but I can't. I am no good with words, not like Peeta or Prim. I clutch at Madge's words, or some approximation of them. "Knowing you might lose someone... it makes you see things differently."

He nods, but his face is still set. "Just tell me," he says, his voice tight. "Did I ever have a chance with you?"

I wish he hadn't asked me that. But he was my best friend once, and he is still my friend, and I can't lie to him now. "No." Because I have considered that - if I felt desire the way other people seem to, if I had wanted a boyfriend, would Gale have been the one I turned to?

If there had been no Peeta, no boy with the bread, yes, probably. But from the moment a little boy with blond hair and a rising bruise threw me bread to keep me alive we have been tied together, and years of taking care of each other has turned that tie into an unbreakable bond.

"No. Just no." Gale's fists clench. "We've been friends for years, or I thought we were - "

"We were. We are. But - "

"But what?" Gale's predictable temper is rising. "I don't get it, Katniss. You leave me hanging for over a _year_ , and then you just... _why_? Why him? Because he needs you? Because you think I can make it without you and he can't?"

"Because I can't make it without him!" I know Gale is hurting, I do, but this isn't fair. I never offered or promised him anything. He may love me, but that doesn't put me under any obligation to love him back. "You've always believed Peeta was some kind of, of burden, but he's not! He works hard, and he's always been there when I needed him, and... and I need him, Gale. I'm sorry, I really am, but - "

"Sorry? You're..." He presses his lips together tightly until he can get some kind of grip on his temper. "Fine. You've made your choice. I guess I have no right to complain."

"No. You don't." His lips tighten again. "Fine. I get it. Now get out of my house."

I glare at him. "Wasn't it you talking about how we were supposed to be friends a minute ago? I turn you down and suddenly it's 'get out of my house'?"

"You humiliated me in front of the entire *town*!" Gale bellows. "You strung me along for over a year, then you made me look like an idiot in front of everyone *and* you.... I wouldn't take you as a _gift_ , Katniss Everdeen! Mellark is welcome to you! Now get out!"

He doesn't actually throw me out, but he slams the door on me so fast that it smacks me on the rump hard enough to hurt a little even through my heavy pants. I kick the door in futile retaliation and stalk off, muttering under my breath. That surly, selfish, if-I-can't-have-you-I-don't-care-about-you-any-more bastard!

I'm most of the way home before I've cooled off enough to remember that Gale wasn't wrong. I _did_  humiliate him in front of most of the town, rejecting him both publicly and extremely painfully. Everyone knew about him wanting me, I remember. And they watched me knee him in the groin and literally vault over his collapsing body to get to Peeta. He was hurt and angry and said things he shouldn't have, just like on the train. Just like every time he gets really mad.

It must be Peeta's influence on me, all this thinking about why people do things and have the feelings they do. Or maybe it's because Gale and I are so alike. I lash out with words too. Thank heavens I do have Peeta - if I'd fallen in love with Gale, how much we'd have hurt each other when we fought. We'd have ended up hating each other for it. As it is, I don't know if we'll ever speak to each other again.

Gale's angry words ring in my head over and over. They were meant to hurt and they do, all the more because I can hear myself in them.

That night, while Prim is out feeding and milking the goats, I pick up the telephone I usually only use to call Finnick and Annie, and dial the number Prim has pinned to the wall beside it. Someone answers, a stranger, and I almost hang up but I need to do this. "Can I speak to Ruth Everdeen, please?"

"Please hold."

I hold.

Then there's another click on the line and my mother's voice. "Prim, is that you? Is everything okay?"

The first time I try to speak, nothing comes out. I have to clear my throat and try again. "It's me, Mom. Katniss."

"Katniss!" She sounds startled and frightened. "What is it? Is Prim all right? Peeta?"

Of course she thinks something is wrong. Why else would I call, when I haven't spoken to her since she left? "We're all okay, Mom." Then I touch the piece of bandage taped to my head to cover my stitches. "Well. Uh. Mostly. Did Prim tell you what happened?"

"I haven't heard from her since Sunday. Why, what is it?"

She doesn't know any of it. That's almost a relief - it gives us a place to start, anyway. "Mrs Mellark tried to kill Peeta. She did kill Mr Mellark. But Prim came to get me, so I went in and I was in time to protect Peeta, and she cut my head a little but it's not bad, it'll hardly even scar, and then Darius shot her." I close my eyes. I'm always bad with words, but this is a new low even for me.

There's silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. "But you're all okay, all three of you?" Mom waits for confirmation on that before she goes on. "All right. Now start over and tell me what happened."

I do, in slightly more detail. I don't mention Gale, though, or the mockingjays. "Peeta's moved down to the bakery," I tell her at the end, and I can't entirely keep the sadness out of my voice. "This afternoon. He couldn't leave it empty, he said."

"No, of course not." Mom sighs. "At least he can cook," she adds, surprising me a little. She sounds more... alert... than she usually does. "If you ever had to live alone I think you'd starve."

I blush. "I wouldn't starve. I'd just eat a lot of really bad food."

"True." Mom sighs again. "I shouldn't have left," she says unhappily. "If I'd known something like this would happen - "

"No," I tell her quickly, before I can lose my nerve. "It's not... we're okay. We handled it. And you were right to go."

"Oh..." She sounds as if she might cry. "Katniss, do you really think so?"

"Yes." I slide down the wall to sit on the floor, holding the phone to my ear with both hands. "I'm sorry I said the things I did." Remembering Gale's cutting words, guilt gnaws at me. "I just... I was angry, and upset, and I said things I didn't mean."

"You did mean them... most of them, anyway," Mom says in a gentle voice. "But I understand why, I really do. I let you down so badly when you were a little girl. We've never been able to leave that behind, have we? Neither of us."

"I think I can now. I can try, anyway." I tip my head back against the wall. "It wasn't just you. I just... I was scared of how much everything was changing. Of losing Peeta," I add, blushing even though she can't see me. "I didn't want to admit... well..."

"You didn't want to admit that you were in love with him," Mom says, when the silence stretches out.

I stare at the opposite wall for a moment. "How did you... how does everyone know _everything_  about me before I do?!"

Mom actually chuckles a little bit. "Sweetheart," she says gently, "you look at him the way I used to look at your father. I've been in love. I know it when I see it." She sighs wistfully. "He's so like Glen. Peeta is, I mean. He doesn't look like him - although they're about the same height - but he reminds me so much of your father."

"He does?" I think often of my father, even now, but somehow I have never put him and Peeta in the same thought before. My father the hunter, the miner, like Peeta who has never set foot in the mine or outside the fence?

"Oh, yes. Little things..." My mother's voice has that wistful note again. She almost never talks about my father, even now. "Both so gentle with children, both soft-spoken - your father almost never raised his voice. And they both hated going to work so much, your father because he hated being underground and Peeta having to face his mother every day, but they never hesitated to do it for us. Never even let it show, so we wouldn't worry."

I'm glad I'm already sitting on the floor, because I'm not sure my knees would support me. I have never noticed. Never thought about them in the same context. But my mother is right - in so many little ways, kind ways, loving ways, Peeta is like my father. A gentle man in a world unforgiving of gentleness or compassion, who would give everything for my family without a moment's hesitation. My eyes are stinging and my voice wavers when I ask, "Mom? Would Dad have... if he'd still been alive, when I brought Peeta home..."

"He would have been so proud of you," Mom says softly. "And of course we would have kept Peeta. They'd have liked each other so much."

Tears trickle down my face, but it's a good kind of crying. I miss my father so much, even now, but we never talk about him. Knowing he would be proud of me is more comforting than I could have imagined. "I was afraid I would lose him," I blurt out, my voice cracking. "When Prim told me there was something wrong at the bakery, I just... I was so scared. And then he was okay - I mean he was alive, he wasn't exactly okay - and I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry for hating you for what happened after Dad died. I didn't understand. Not until I thought I would lose Peeta."

Mom is crying too, I can hear it, but her voice is warm. "Katniss, I'm sorry I let you down. I know you've never forgiven me, and I never blamed you for that. I never forgave myself, either. How could I? You almost died because I didn't take care of you, and there is no excuse for that." She sighs a little. "But please believe me, Katniss, I had no idea how long it had been. I didn't realize it had been so long, that the month was up and there was no money left. It wasn't until the day you brought home bread, and I realized how hungry we all were..." Her voice changes then. "I never knew how you got it. I was so afraid you'd stolen it. But it was Peeta, wasn't it? He gave it to you. That's what you meant when you brought him home, about him saving Prim twice."

I nod before I remember that she can't see me. "He burned it," I tell her, my chest aching with the memory. If I hadn't been so paralyzed by Dad's death, if I hadn't shoved all my own feelings down so hard, I think I'd have loved him then. "He did it on purpose, knowing his mother would hit him... but she made him give the bread to the pig. He knew she would, that she wouldn't let him eat it himself even though it was still good. And when he came out to do it, he threw the bread to me instead. We'd never even spoken to each other, but he got it away from his mother and gave it to me b-because he'd heard his mother yell at me for looking in the trash for food. Because he knew I needed it."

Mom sobs, and I do too. "I'm so sorry, Katniss. I'm sorry I let you down."

"I know. And I understand it better now." I wipe my nose on the edge of my shirt. "I can't imagine wanting to live without him. And..." I swallow hard. "And I did tell him. And we can't talk about it yet, because his parents are dead and it wouldn't be right, but we're going to get married in spring. I... I hope you can come home for it."

My mother seems to pull herself together a little. "You're both very young to get married," she says almost sternly. "And I'd suggest waiting another year or two if I thought either of you would listen." Then she sighs, and I can hear a smile in her voice. "But I've watched you together for years. Taking care of Prim and Haymitch and me. Being more responsible than plenty of adults I know. Taking care of each other and supporting each other. It's really only a formality, isn't it?"

I laugh a little. "It is, I guess. I just hate that we have to be apart for months first. I know we have to... we've been living together for so long, if we got married right away people would think..." I don't think Prim ever told her about the gossip after she left, but she must know what people would think.

Mom laughs shakily too. "And you never gave me even a minute's worry about that," she says affectionately. "Neither of you - I knew you loved each other, I'd have to be blind not to know it, but I knew you weren't sneaking off anywhere. I was so relieved."

I can't tell her. I don't think I'll ever be able to tell her why there was never any chance of that, why any grandchildren I provide will be adopted. But I'm glad she's happy, even if she's wrong about why. She hasn't had much to be happy about in the last seven years, with one child who hated her and showed it and the endless grief of losing Dad, then losing Haymitch too, and having to leave her home to study things she already knew. "We wouldn't have," I tell her instead. "It wouldn't have been right."

She's pleased by that, and says goodbye after promising to try to come to the wedding and telling me again that she's sorry.

I am still a little angry with her. I always will be. But I can put it aside now. She did the best she could, which is all anyone can do. And she never hated me no matter how many awful things I said to her and that must have been work.

I didn't miss her much when she left, but I miss Peeta so much it hurts. I feel as if a part of me, a limb or an eye, has been cut away and left me helpless until I learn how to manage without it. It has only been three years since Peeta came to live with us, but I have come to depend on him so much.

I bring squirrels to the back door of the bakery, the way I used to when Peeta was recovering from losing his leg and before, and this time the baker invites me in. Squirrel is one of Peeta's favourites.

I sit on the edge of a table, watching him cutting out fancy cookies with a cutter shaped like a butterfly and one like a fat little bird. "Where did you get the cutters? Originally, I mean." I've always wondered why there were so many pretty things in the bakery, when there was so little beauty elsewhere in Twelve.

"My grandfather, I think. He bribed one of the mine's metal-workers or something." Peeta lays the last cut cookie on a baking sheet, then squashes the remaining dough together to be rolled out again. He's sitting on a high stool to spare his leg, with his remaining foot on the floor for balance."There wasn't much you couldn't buy in Twelve with good bread - still isn't," he adds. "We... I barter a lot." The accidental plural brushes the smile from his face, but he shrugs. He grieves for his father, but the loss of his parents hasn't hurt him the way losing my father hurt me. He's older, and he's spent three years thinking of my family as his own and his parents as the people who hurt him or let him be hurt. It seems to help him.

"You?" I shake my head. "You get cheated," I tell him with certainty. "You're too soft-hearted."

He laughs at that. "Well, when you're here, you can handle the barter."

The warmth in his eyes when he says that makes me melt a little, but I try not to let it show too much. "Well, of course. I'm better at it than you."

He laughs again. "Says the girl who overpays every child in the Seam for feathers they pick up or forage they gather for the goats."

I blush. It's true, but I didn't know he knew it. I don't pay them in money, but now that I can be I'm foolishly generous with spoonfuls of syrup or handfuls of dried fruit or one of Peeta's cheese rolls, treats that the poorest children rarely see even now that they don't usually go hungry. It makes them so happy. "That's different."

"Of course." He leans over and kisses me, smelling of cinnamon and maple. "And thank you for the squirrels."

"I want payment," I tell him, and my attempt at being stern is probably ruined by the silly smile on my face. I like kissing him so much. "Prim's rolls aren't anything like as good as yours."

"Oh, well, heaven forbid that sentiment come between you and your cheese rolls." He laughs at that, going back to work. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you have them."

"Good. And I'll make sure you get your squirrel." I shake my head. I like squirrel all right - it tastes almost as good as turkey - but now that meat is more plentiful, I wonder that he's always willing to go to so much trouble to cook something so small. Prim and I favour turkey or duck, and Mom's favourite is rabbit, and they're all at least two or three times the size of a squirrel for only a little more work in skinning and butchering.

He looks up at me, with that indescribably tender, loving look that turns me to pudding. "It's your own fault, you know," he says softly. "I wouldn't like squirrel so much if it wasn't for you."

I blink at him. "Why, because I brought them home a lot when you first moved in?" I did, of course. They're the easiest meat to get if you're a good shot, and tasty enough for even one squirrel to give a whole stew a good meat taste.

He shakes his head. "Dad told me, you know. That you brought them for me." He touches his damaged leg. "After this. That's probably why I recovered as well as I did, you know that? Mom wouldn't touch your meat after that - she bought from Gale, but she got so angry at Dad if he bought anything from you. And she was so angry with me for what I did that she wouldn't even bring up food if Dad wasn't around. But when she was out Dad would cook the squirrels for me. I must have eaten more meat in that first month than I had in the last year," he adds, his eyes distant. "And he told me it was you. That you kept refusing to take any money, because it was for me."

I haven't thought about those squirrels in a long time. That Katniss could never have imagined this, me sitting inside the bakery, planning to make it my home, with no fear of hunger and a love equal to my parents' to warm me. "I didn't know what else to do. You'd saved Prim, I had to do _s_ _omething_."

Peeta glances sideways at me as he begins cutting out again. "I wondered if it was because of the bread," he says softly. "If you wanted to pay me back. Or... or if you were worried about me." He blushes, but he goes on. "I was already crazy about you, you know. I'd had a crush on you for years."

I stare at him. "Back then? We'd never even talked to each other!"

He laughs. "Katniss, I'd had a crush on you since we were _five_. I just never had the nerve to tell you."

My mouth is hanging open. It takes me a minute to regain enough control of it to talk. "Since we were _five_?" Then I remember. "You said that, the... the morning we settled everything. That you'd loved me since you heard me sing the first time. When _was_  that?"

He tells me then about his father pointing me out as the child of the woman he wanted to marry - which strikes me as more than a little creepy, though of course a five-year-old wouldn't question it - and then hearing me sing in school. That ever since that day, he had liked me in secret, too shy to say anything. Then there was the bread, and he was so glad to be able to do something for me, to have me at least notice his existence. That he'd tried to catch my eye the day afterwards, but couldn't manage it and - like me - never quite managed to speak afterwards even though he wanted to.

"And then there was the bombing, and that part had nothing to do with you," he says, just as I'm wondering that very thing. "I didn't even recognise Prim at first, there was so much dust everywhere. But I couldn't leave a little kid there while I ran away. And then after that debris came down on me... all I remember is seeing you bending over me. You were crying, and I wanted to say something to you but I passed out again before I could."

"And your mother wouldn't let me see you after that. I was scared to even come near the bakery when she was around, in case she took it out on you." I pick up a little scrap of dough and roll it between my fingers. "I still didn't know what to say if I did see you. I'm not good at... saying things."

"I know." He smiles at me, that sweet smile that has always tugged at my heart. "But you came when it mattered. I had a concussion, so it's all pretty hazy, but I remember that. And I remember being carried - you were holding my hand. And the sun was setting, but it wasn't as pretty as you were. I tried to tell you that, but I don't think I succeeded."

I do remember that, and I laugh a little. "You looked at me and then at the sky and said 'pretty'. I thought you meant the sunset, so I agreed with you."

"I meant you. And then I woke up in your house and you said I could stay and I was so embarrassed I wanted to melt into the floor... but I was happy." There's not much of the dough left now, but he squishes it together and rolls it out again. "So what about you?"

"What about me?"

He raises his eyebrows at me. "When did it start for you?"

I think about that. I spent so long denying feeling anything that it's hard to pin down. "Well, it started with the bread. I wasn't... I shut down, after Dad died. I didn't let myself feel much for a long time. But I watched you after that. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. And then I took you home, and... I had no idea how to feel, but I was glad you were there."

He nods. "But when did you get less confused?"

It's surprisingly easy to answer, when I think about it. "Remember the big storm, that winter in the Seam? When we all huddled up in front of the fire for two days?"

He smiles. "You sang. It was the first time I heard you sing since the mine accident."

"It _was_  the first time I sang since the mine accident, except a few lullabies when Prim was sick," I say slowly. "It was the first time I felt like singing. I couldn't, after Dad... it reminded me too much of him. It hurt too much. But during the storm, I wanted to sing. I had my family and we were safe... It was the first time I'd felt like that since Dad was gone. I was happy."

Peeta abandons the dough then, shifting off his stool to put his arms around me. "I was too," he murmurs, holding me close. "I'd always had a crush on you, but it was something more then."

I rest my head on his shoulder. "I remember you asked me to sing, and I sang 'The Trees Grow High'. And then I taught you the words to 'Down In the Meadow'. I think it was then that it started for me. When we were singing together, and Mom and Prim were asleep, and... you were mine, then. Like them. Like Haymitch. I could let myself care about you then."

He kisses my temple. "I was always yours," he murmurs. "Always."

I sigh and snuggle up. "If I didn't have... well, you know, that problem... we'd probably have been together for years by now," I admit, smiling a little. "If I hadn't been so confused about what I was feeling, about why sex was such a, a _t_ _hing_ , I'd probably have started kissing you right there in the kitchen on the train."

He chuckles. "I'd have thought I'd died and gone to heaven." He kisses me again, slowly and gently. "I do now," he adds, turning me to putty with one of those looks again. "I love you, Katniss. It was a crush when we were kids, but now... I know you so well. I've lived with you, been with you when we lost Haymitch, we've taken care of Prim together..."

"Mom said us getting married was just a formality," I mumur into his shoulder, more content than I ever remember being.

He pulls back and looks down at me in surprise. "Did you tell her?"

I have to explain, and he's glad that we've reconciled. So glad, in fact, that when I finally leave I am almost too dazed with sweet kisses and excited plans for the future to remember the still-warm cookies he gave me.


	15. Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I know very little about Cherokee history other than what can be found online - as an Australian, it's not something that otherwise comes much in my way. I have tried to treat the subject as respectfully as I can, wanting to acknowledge the reality of forced displacement and relocation as it might have affected the 'citizens' of Panem and as it has affected the Cherokee people in the past. If I've made any egregious errors, I apologise - they are unintentional. 
> 
> (I know 'story sticks' aren't really a thing. I do believe that we white people are incredibly gullible when it comes to 'primitive folkways' and that the surviving Cherokee would have taken full advantage of this. If people will believe in hoop snakes, they'll believe in anything.)
> 
> Further notes on race in Panem at the end.

I am eighteen when I am summoned to advise the mayor on the matter of settlers coming to District Twelve.  
  
Not that I know that when I'm called. Madge calls on the phone, shortly after the first snowfall, asking me if I'm free. Since all I had planned was gutting a couple of ducks, which can wait until evening, I tell her I am and she asks me if I can come to her house to provide a hunter's perspective.  
  
Mystified, I do as I'm asked.  
  
To my surprise, instead of sitting down with me in the kitchen Madge takes me to her father's office, the one with the big desk and the official video links. Mayor Undersee is at the desk  - he looks tired and a little bewildered. He looks up from his papers when Madge ushers me in, and smiles at me. "Miss Everdeen. Thank you for coming."  
  
"It's not problem. I wasn't busy." I go in, feeling a little uncertain. The Mayor is functionally the ultimate authority in Twelve, and though Madge and I are friends and there's no longer any laws against the hunting or foraging I do, I feel nervous approaching him. "What is it?"  
  
He moves some papers aside and pushes a bigger one towards me. When I bend over it, I realize it's a map - a map of Twelve, according to the printed words in one corner. But it's so big! Our one small town only covers about an inch in the middle of it. "I know you go outside the fence most days," the Mayor says, his finger running over the small loop that is our fence. "But no-one seems to know exactly where. Can you tell me what areas outside you are familiar with?"  
  
I almost say no on reflex. My woods are mine. But I glance at Madge and she nods, and I trust her. All the more now that we have shared secrets we could trust to few others. So I turn the map once or twice, until I can resolve the lines into something I recognise. "Here." I draw a rough outline, avoiding the speck that is my lake. "This area. There's no tracker jackers except one nest here." I indicate it. "I can't go any further north - there's a bear up that way."  
  
Mayor Undersee nods. "Are there many bears?"  
  
I shrug. "Only a couple that I know of... I think the tracker jackers take care of any on the western side, there's more nests that way. Gale and I found bones once. There's the one I mentioned, and there was another one to the south but it seems to have moved on. Gale and I always avoided them. We can bring down a deer, maybe, but bears are _big_. And they fight back. Usually the worst a wounded deer will do is run off with a good arrow." 

He shudders, and I'm reminded of how terrifying most people still find the woods. I like it that way. That way I have them to myself. "And wild dogs and.... other things, too."  
  
"Not many mutts," I tell him, because he's old and I don't want him so scared of the woods that he wants to electrify the fence again or something. "Tracker jackers, but they tend to stay near their nests. Mockingjays, obviously. But nothing else, not for years. And the wild animals mostly stay away from the fence."  
  
He seems a little relieved by that, but he's still frowning as he looks at the map. "What about this area here?" He traces another loose circle to the south of District Twelve, on the river I can see from the southern edge of my hunting grounds. "Have you ever been here?"  
  
I shake my head. "I'd have to be gone at least a day, walking there and back, and that's with no time at all for hunting." No-one in Twelve has much grasp of distance - when your whole world is encompassed in about four square miles and the Capitol Somewhere Far Away, I guess it's hard to understand how long it takes to walk somewhere. Especially on the kind of terrain there is between here and the river. "There's a ravine, and predators... I stick to the area I can go to and come back from in an hour or two."  
  
He sighs. "I see." He leans his elbows on the desk. "We've received an application - Theoph forwarded it to me. A group of people who want to move to Twelve, and settle in that area. I hoped you'd have some idea of whether they could."  
  
I stare at him. "Why would anyone want to move to _Twelve_?"  
  
"Well, they say they want to move _back_." He rifles through his papers again, and hands me a sheet. "Here's what they said."  
  
I read the paper, while Madge brings in tea and hands me a cup. It's utterly bizarre, but fascinating. These people - they seem to be located in Seven and Ten, mostly Ten - claim that they are the _original_ inhabitants of this area. That they were here not only before Panem, but before the country called the United States. I've never even heard of anyone who knew what had happened that long ago - I suppose there might be historians or something in the Capitol, though. These people, who call themselves 'Cherokee', say that they want their home back. They have no official proof, of course - the Capitol would have made sure of that - but they've provided a copy of an old map, clearly hand-drawn. It's distorted - a copy of a copy of something very old, probably - but it's recognisable to someone who's looked down at that area from the mountain. And how would anyone in District Ten know what a river in Twelve looks like?  
  
"It's interesting," I tell the Mayor when I'm finished. "Are you going to let them?"  
  
The Mayor shrugs. "If their claims are true - and I don't see any reason to disbelieve them - I don't know that I have any right to stop them," he says slowly. "They say they were forcibly relocated during the creation of Panem, which certainly sounds like what the Capitol would do. But I'm not at all sure it's wise - there are so many dangers out there. And what would they do for food?"  
  
It's a valid question. I've done well from foraging, but it was never enough on its own. We needed the tesserae or the food allowances. And while an adult without school or the old Peacekeepers and regulations to hold them back could eat well enough, I don't know about a whole town full of them. Gale and I have always had the woods pretty much to ourselves, and even then we didn't always find enough. With a lot of people hunting and foraging, there'd be much less. "They're coming from Ten, right? Would they be bringing livestock?"  
  
"I'm not sure." The Mayor frowns. "That would help, of course. And Seven is lumber - there are certainly plenty of trees."  
  
"I know a couple of traders from Seven." My maple trees, I think with a sudden pang. What if some of these strangers know how to tap trees? Am I going to lose my new source of income, the one I was so sure of? "Some parts of it are pretty like here."  
  
He nods. "As long as they have some means of providing for themselves." He looks so tired, suddenly. "I am so tired of seeing hungry faces, Miss Everdeen," he says sadly. "It's always been so hard to provide for even the few people we have. If thousands more people come... they couldn't even live inside the fence. We don't have room. And what would they do in winter? There isn't even a road!"  
  
I reach over to pat his arm gently. He's been a good Mayor, but I can understand why Madge looks so worried lately. He's just too old and too tired from years of hunger and oppression. "Have them send some people," I suggest. "To actually go to the place. I'll escort them, if you like. I mean, there might be tracker jackers all over it, or something, and then they couldn't live there. And if they do, clearing a track and building a bridge over the ravine would cut travel time a lot."  
  
He looks so relieved. "Would you? I've been worrying - they'd be so isolated, so far away from the train station and the doctor and _everything_. If you can meet with them, show them what it's really like out there... of course they're welcome, if they want to come. It's their home. But home can be a nice safe place to starve to death, we all know that."  
  
We do, and for the first time I wonder what it has been like for him all these years, to be responsible for so many and - until the last year or so - so completely unable to help any of them. No wonder he's old before his time. He's not even ten years older than my mother, but he looks sixty at least. "Don't worry. I'll get them there and back, and then we can worry about what comes next."  
  
It's less than a week later that I find myself at the station at dawn, waiting for a train. The head-woman of the people who call themselves Cherokee - such a strange-sounding name - jumped on the offer of a guided visit to the territory they want so fast that she had someone on a train the next morning. He rendezvoused with someone else in Seven, and then they came on here. I hope someone warned them about the weather.  
  
Someone seems to have. When the train pulls up, the first people off are dressed for snow in heavy coats and pants, with good boots. One is at least as tall as Gale, with shaggy hair falling around his face. The other one has a braid hanging down her back that's longer than mine, and she must be a head taller. They look around, and I lift a hand. They're both older than me but not much - early to mid twenties would be my guess. They both have black hair, dark eyes, and skin a shade or two darker than mine. When they come over, it's the woman who speaks first. "Are you Katniss Everdeen?" When I nod, she holds out a hand and we shake. "I'm Grace Walker. This is Fletcher Clay. Just call us Grace and Fletcher. You're our guide, right?"  
  
"I've never actually been where you want to go," I warn her. "It's too far. I don't know if we can even get there from here on foot. But I'm the only one in Twelve who goes outside the fence much."  
  
She nods. "Most people have trouble with it. Leaving our Districts... it was so unthinkable." She smiles at me. "But thank you for offering to take us. When your mayor contacted Fletch's mother, he said it was your idea."  
  
I shrug, embarrassed. "It's okay. Do you want to start right away? If we're lucky, we might be able to get there and back in one day. I don't know if you've ever camped in snow, but I don't recommend it."  
  
Fletcher shudders. "No thank you. I had no idea it was this _cold_."  
  
Grace and I both laugh. "You think this is cold? Wait until winter really sets in," she says, giving him a friendly punch in the shoulder. "The snow's barely lying now. When it's over your knees, then you'll know you're in the mountains."  
  
Fletcher looks aghast. I'm glad Grace is laughing at him too, because I don't think I could hold it back. "Come on. We have a couple of stops to make first."  
  
"Is one of them breakfast?" Fletcher asks hopefully. "We have money."  
  
"One of them is breakfast, but we should eat on the road if that's all right with you."  
  
Fletcher shakes his head. "I could eat hanging upside down from my toes," he assures me, and I like the twinkle of humour in his eyes. "I don't think I'll ever get used to having enough to eat."  
  
I return his smile. "Me neither. And I'm a hunter - I ate better than most." I turn to pick up the pack and bow I shed while I was waiting, and when I turn back to them their eyes are both riveted to me. "What?"  
  
Fletcher holds out a hand. "The bow. Can I see it?"  
  
I don't like handing it over to a complete stranger, but I can't see any polite way out of it. "Be careful," I warn him. "My father made it."  
  
He handles it with an unexpected expertise, turning it over in gloved hands and examining it closely. "Then I'd like to meet your father," he says. "This is good work."  
  
I look away, not wanting to show the twinge of pain. "He's dead," I say shortly. "He was killed in a mining accident when I was eleven. So be careful with that, I can't replace it."  
  
"I'm sorry," Fletcher says, sounding like he means it. "I lost mine when I was fifteen. I know how it is."  The sympathy stops there, which helps. Instead he hands me back my bow, then unslings his own long pack and digs in it. "Here. Want to see mine?"  
  
What he hands me looks so garish that I almost laugh. It's heavily painted, with lines and patterns and strange figures, and since it's un-strung it looks like a curved, painted stick until I turn it the right way up and feel the balance. "Why the paint?"  
  
Fletcher laughs, and slings his pack on his back again. "It's a disguise." He explains as we walk into town. Fletcher is a name that's been in his family a long time - along with the knowledge of how to make bows and arrows, good ones. It had to be secret, of course. The Peacekeepers weren't easy-going in Ten the way they were here. But someone in his family had the bright idea of painting up an un-strung bow to look silly and ornamental and claim that it was a ceremonial object of some sort. The Peacekeepers, none of whom had ever even seen a bow, apparently fell for it hook and line. Most people in his town had at least one 'story stick' hanging on their walls until the rebellion - some of them real bows, more of them useless decoys, and everyone in the house primed with the 'real story from our ancestors' relating to the pictures if anyone asked.  
  
"One time..." Fletcher shakes his head, laughing. "One time, when I was a kid, the new Head Peacekeeper came to our house. My mother is the mayor of our town, you see. So he came to our house and looked at the _six_ of them hanging on our wall and said 'what are those' and the old Peacekeeper who'd come with him butted in before we could say anything, talking about our 'primitive folkways' and how we all had these painted sticks with pictures to remind us of old stories and the new guy said 'how interesting' in that patronising way, and Mom shoved the one fake we had into his hands and spent the next hour telling him the most boring story she could think of, right through dinner, and when he finally escaped we heard the older guy telling him on the way down the hill 'don't ever ask them about the damned sticks. Every time you even look at the stupid stick they want to tell you the whole story!"  
  
"I can't believe that _worked_." I turn down the alley behind the bakery, chuckling.  
  
"It always works." Fletcher still sounds amused, but there's an edge to it. "If they think you're superstitious savages, they'll swallow just about anything."  
  
I can tell there's something behind that, but we've reached the bakery and I turn into the tiny yard. "Here. This is the bakery."  
  
"Will they sell us anything this early?" Grace asks, already sniffing. The scent of baking bread is everywhere.  
  
"Peeta knows we're coming." I knock on the door.  
  
It takes a minute for him to open it, and I can tell from the flour on his arms and in his hair that he was busy, but even on this icy morning I melt all the way down to my toes when he smiles at me. "On your way?"  
  
I nod and introduce Grace and Fletcher. "We need to move if we're going to make it there and back today." I'm trying to sound businesslike, but I'm not sure how well it works when I can't help smiling back at Peeta.  
  
"Nice to meet you." He smiles at them both, brushing flour off his hands before shaking hands with both. Then he hands out the large flasks I borrowed for the occasion, full of hot herb tea and wrapped in quilting, and three folded cloths full of warm rolls, cheese and herb or maple and cinnamon. "Eat them while they're hot, they'll chill fast - and here." He passes me a large earthenware pot, warm from the oven and with its lid tied down, three spoons tied to the lid's handle with another loop of string. "Stew."  
  
It's sweet of him, and I melt a little more. I asked for enough for two meals, but he didn't have to go to this much trouble. "What kind?"  
  
"Rabbit and squirrel, with katniss roots." He grins at Grace and Fletcher. "Specialty of District Twelve, or it will be if anyone ever takes an interest in what we eat here."  
  
Grace brightens perceptibly. "Squirrel? I _l_ _ove_ squirrel!"  
  
I guess that in Seven, with all those trees, there must be plenty of squirrels. "Peeta makes good squirrel stew." I start to settle the pot in the crook of my arm, then offer it to Fletcher. "Want to carry it? It's warm."  
  
"Please." He takes it, all but cuddling it. "And it gets _colder_ than this?"  
  
"Always." Peeta looks sympathetic. "But you get used to it." He gives me another smile. "See you tonight?"  
  
"If we're back in time."  
  
After he's shut the door, we make it a whole three steps past the yard before Grace grins at me. "So. You and the baker, huh?"  
  
I can feel my cheeks warm. "Me and the baker what?"  
  
Fletcher laughs. "He gave us what I used to think was two days worth of food and he was so busy making eyes at you that he forgot to ask for money," he says dryly. "I saw the broadcasts you were in a couple of years back. I _know_ you aren't that used to having food around here."  
  
My face is burning now, despite the cold. "It's already paid for," I lie, cursing myself for forgetting. Mayor Undersee gave me money to pay for what our visitors need - within reason - but I am so used to Peeta giving me food that I completely forgot to hand him the coins. And he _was_ too busy making eyes at me to think of it, not that he would have asked if he had. He knows I'd never let anyone cheat him. "The Mayor arranged it. He said we should be welcoming."  
  
Fletcher, who already has a mouthful of hot cheese bun, groans happily and then shakes his head. "How much did he spend? This is rich people food. I mean, not Capitol, but...."  
  
"We have our own money," Grace adds, and her voice has an edge on it. "We can pay for ourselves."  
  
I understand that. We all have our pride, and it will be a long time before a gift of food is easy for anyone in the Districts to take. "Feel free to spend it when we get back. The Mayor gave me enough to buy you breakfast, just for a welcome, and I traded with Peeta for another meal so we wouldn't have to stop to hunt on the way."  
  
"Even if he only paid for the rolls," Grace says, still reluctant, "it must have cost. This is wheat bread, with real cheese."  
  
I shrug. "My sister makes the cheese, so I didn't have to pay for that. We grow the herbs Peeta uses, too, or I gather them in the woods. I'm the one who shoots the squirrels and traps the rabbits. I'd be eating the same if you weren't here, just not as much of it." Which is true enough. Peeta and Prim and I haven't made any effort to disentangle our finances, not when we'll be moving in together again in the spring. She's never asked him for money for the cheese she makes, any more than he'd charge us for bread or than I'd - except for a joke - ask for payment for my squirrels or syrup. We're family, even if we have to live apart.  
  
Grace has given in and is eating a roll, making happy noises, and Fletcher has taken a swig of tea. Now he raises his brows at me. "So he cooks with your sister's cheese and your squirrels. You two married or something?"  
  
The blush comes back so fast it makes me dizzy for a second. "No!"  
  
They both grin at the look on my face. "I don't know," Fletcher says seriously. "That sounded more like a 'not yet' to me."  
  
"It's not... I... " Nobody in Twelve quite dares to raise the subject to my face these days, so I'm unprepared for the teasing. But I can tell that it's meant to be friendly, and my blushes and confusion have already given me away, so I don't try too hard to hide my embarrassment. "It's not official."  
  
They both look sympathetic. "Parent trouble?" Grace asks. "I bet they think you're too young."  
  
"My mother does. But she really likes Peeta, and he owns the bakery now, so..." I trail off meaningfully. They must have seen the missing foot, but owning a bakery would more than outweigh that. Peeta's quite a catch by any District's standards, as far as I can tell. "But his parents died barely a month ago, and everyone knows how his mother felt about me. I'm from the Seam." I lift a shoulder, trying to seem as if it didn't bother me. "So we're waiting until spring."  
  
Grace looks around. "He's Town," she says, surprising me with her understanding. "Shopkeeper, and all. They usually think they're a cut above us worker types."  
  
I've taken a bite of one of my own rapidly cooling rolls, but I swallow it hastily. "Peeta's not like that," I say firmly, determined to defend him. "We've liked each other since we were kids." Well, we have, even if I didn't know about it. It still counts.  
  
"Yeah, I could tell." Grace smiles, nibbling her own sweet roll again. "He looks at you like you hung the moon."  
  
I blush all the way down to the Seam, but I don't mind it. If it's that obvious to complete strangers, maybe gossip won't be too harsh here.  
  
I've hired a donkey for the trip, not knowing how much our visitors could carry. We collect it from its owner in the Seam, one-armed Ripper who still brews white spirits and who openly stole the donkey from the mine during the rebellion. It's made her life substantially easier, and the donkey seems happier too. It clearly remembers me from our maple-collecting time together, pricking up its silly ears and nuzzling my leg. (I gave it licks of maple sap off my palm last time. Its love was easy to buy.)  
  
I load up the donkey with the camping gear and other necessities I dropped off yesterday while Ripper makes small-talk with our visitors. Everyone's interested in the idea that someone wants to settle here, and by the time the donkey is ready to go Ripper is nodding and handing Grace one of her small bottles. "To keep the cold out," she says cheerfully. She waves away the coin they offer her. "Next one'll cost you, but Everdeen always pays well for the donkey, and she's too young for the stuff. She'll bring back the bottle."  
  
Grace looks so baffled that I can't help snickering. "You're new. Nobody's ever seen someone _new_ in Twelve... not ordinary people like us, I mean. We've had Victors and such," I explain, taking the covered pot of stew and securing it in between the packs. "Everyone's interested."  
  
"I see." Grace shakes her head. "We thought we wouldn't be welcome. Your mayor dragged his feet at first. The way I hear it, he only let us come to look at the place because you talked him into it."  
  
"He's worried that you'll all be eaten by bears or starve to death." I take the donkey's lead rope and it nuzzles my leg again. It's so cute - and useful - that I give it the last bite of my maple-sweetened bun. "There _are_ bears, and wild dogs and tracker jackers too. That's why I'm practically the only person who goes outside the fence."  
  
For some reason, they both look sceptical. But we've delayed enough, so I lead them out into the street and towards the Meadow. We'll have to circle around the fence a way, going out that way, but that's where the makeshift gate is and the donkey can't slip under a loose spot. Most of the miners are already gone for the early shift, but there are enough people around that my temper is getting a little short by the time we get to the Meadow. Everyone wants to say hello to the newcomers. It did give me time to notice something, though. "You'd fit in, in the Seam," I tell them when we reach the fence and I have to stop to unfasten the gate.  
  
Fletcher's eyebrows go up. "What do you mean?" He sounds like he's not sure if it's an insult or not.  
  
"Just how you look." I shrug, wrestling with the gate. "Almost everyone in the Seam looks pretty alike. Your eyes are dark, but the rest of your colouring is pretty close." I get the gate open. "Come through, and look out for where the wire sticks out."  
  
They do, but they're both looking at me oddly now. "We only saw a few people - but most of them look like you?"  
  
"In the Seam. In Town they're usually like Peeta, blond with blue eyes." I lead the donkey sharp right, figuring we'll walk along the open space outside the fence for as long as we can. "I guess it's because there's not many of us - by now everyone's related some way or another." Hundreds of years of isolation, with only an occasional crossing like my mother's between Town and Seam, will do that kind of thing. I remember Paylor's striking dark eyes and Darius's red hair, how startling they are to someone used to only ever seeing two kinds of colouring.  
  
Fletcher snorts behind me. "Of course," he says softly. "Some things never change."  
  
I look over my shoulder, nettled by his annoyed tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
That opens some kind of floodgate and Fletcher talks - with interjections from Grace - for nearly a solid hour. At the end of it I know more about history than I did after twelve years of school. That people who look like us, Cherokee and related tribes, lived here long before anyone else. That they were pushed aside and moved on by 'settlers' from other countries. That Panem was just more of the same, people being gathered up and moved to where they'd be more useful, or at least less inconvenient, with no respect for their rights or wishes. (I snort at that. "Nobody outside the Capitol had rights in Panem." They agree, sourly.)  
  
That bloodlines they managed to preserve through invasion and relocation are now hopelessly obscured. All their records were destroyed, save a few hidden relics like their map, and there have been generations of out-marriages that blurred the lines even further. They're sure that parts of the language have been lost, words and ideas forgotten. They're not even sure if the original Cherokee would think they still _are_. They certainly wouldn't think that the people in District Twelve are, as distant from whatever ancestors gave us our dark hair and olive skin as we are. But Grace and Fletcher do. It is too great a coincidence that they come back to their ancestral home to find people who look at least something like them, used as menial labourers in their own old home. And my father's bow is very like the ones they make, and perhaps that's a link too.  
  
I know nothing about who we might have been before Panem came into being. Nobody in Twelve does. But I tell them what my father told me the old people used to say when he was a boy - that District Twelve is here because _we_ were here, us and the mine. He always added that they said that there had been miners in the Appalachians since God made coal, but maybe that wasn't all of it.  
  
I can reassure them, though, that nobody in Twelve will be hostile or unwelcoming if they do take back the land that used to belong to them. Think they're mad, probably, for wanting to go out in the wilderness without even a fence to protect them or a mine to provide steady work, but that's different. "So what are you going to do for money?" I ask curiously.  
  
They're still working that out, Grace admits. The people from Ten have livestock chits - apparently everyone was issued with them in Ten, when the war ended, so they could claim a few animals from the massive flocks and herds for themselves, anything from chickens to sheep to a cow or two. Both they and the lumberjacks in Seven know how to garden, and can bring seeds and seedlings to plant here. There are tanners and leather-workers in Ten, too, and people like Fletcher's family who have held onto old skills like making bows. There are plenty of trees to cut here, for the lumberjacks, and open places like the Meadow where crops can grow. They're sure they can make it, if they work hard.  
  
I'm inclined to agree.  
  
Walking to the area they want takes a long time, and I have to point out a tracker jacker nest (dormant after snowfall, thank goodness) and warn them that there will be more. Grace tells me that they can actually remove the nests and that they've spent the last couple of years clearing District Seven. There's a gas the Capitol used - it's not dangerous to other insects, but pumped into a tracker jacker nest it will kill them in minutes. Given that it takes tracker jackers a lot less than a minute to kill a person, it's safest done either in winter or, in a pinch, at night. Then you can sneak up, put a bag around the nest and the branch and fill it with gas while the little monsters are sleeping.  
  
I show them tracks in the snow, too. Grace can identify some, but Fletcher has never seen tracks in snow. He's a quick study, though, and once he strings his bow he's almost as good a shot as I am. By the time we get there we've bagged six squirrels and an incautious rabbit, a good hunting day.  
  
"Nobody's ever hunted them," I explain, when Grace wonders at how easy it is. "Except for a few fugitives heading for Thirteen, nobody's come here in a long, long time. No-one from Twelve ever goes this far from the fence, not even me - I don't need to." I point up the slope behind us and to the right. "My traplines are up there."  
  
Grace brightens. "You know how to set a trapline? Most of us don't - I know how to make a couple of snares, but we couldn't get out the way you could, so I've only set them a few times. Could you show us?"  
  
"I could, but you'd be better off asking Gale Hawthorne. His traps are always better than mine."  
  
"Can you introduce us?"  
  
"No." It comes out a little too emphatic, and I look away. "We're, uh... we used to be friends, but... we had a fight. He's not talking to me."  
  
Fletcher, running his palm absently along his bowstring, quirks one of those mobile brows at me. "What about?"  
  
He obviously suspects, and I curse my blush and hope that the pinkness of cold does something to hide it. "Peeta."  
  
"Ah." Fletcher considers that. "Was Gale after you or him?"  
  
"Me." I can't help giggling at the thought of Gale being in love with Peeta. He'd be so horrified by the idea. I'm not sure Gale even knows men - or women - _can_ fall in love with each other. Actually, I'm fairly sure he doesn't. If he had, he'd have asked me if that was the problem, like Peeta did. "We'd been friends for years - a lot of people knew he wanted to be my boyfriend before I did. But I never wanted anyone but Peeta." And that's true. I may not want him the way they probably think, but I was fifteen when Peeta made me see the point of being married for the first time - of having a partner, someone who could do the things I couldn't, who'd take care of me as well as me taking care of him. No-one else has ever even come close.  
  
"Oh, well." Grace nods. "Boys always take that hard. Girls, too," she adds fairly. "He'll get over it one way or another."  
  
Somehow they coax me to talk a lot more than I usually do. Telling them about life in District Twelve, how it is now and how it was under Snow, passes into telling them more personal stories. How Peeta lost his leg. How I got Prim's first goat. Why I shot that soldier who came to take our Peacekeepers away, and why we're so possessive of our Peacekeepers. They're puzzled by that, even though they saw the 'trial' on television. It's hard for them to imagine being friendly enough with Peacekeepers to want to protect them. Twelve seems to have been unique - compared to what Grace and Fletcher tell me, our Peacekeepers were ridiculously easy-going and friendly. I'd never even seen a public whipping until Fine arrived, which apparently is an abnormally long time to go without one.  
  
"And then they turned on their own for you?" We're sitting around a small fire, eating hot stew from the shared pot, and Fletcher pauses to make a happy noise around a mouthful before he continues. "I can't even imagine that. Why would they care if this Fine guy executed a few dissenters?"  
  
"They cared because there weren't any." I scoop up a chunk of katniss root. "They knew that. Knew us. We hadn't known about the rebellion, and it was the end of winter. All anyone here could do by then was try to stay alive until thaw. And then Fine came and started attacking people they knew, like Gale. He and I always sold to the Peacekeepers, they had more money than anyone else in the District. And some of them were friendly. Like Darius - he works for the police here, now. I'll introduce you if you want." They don't look like they like the idea, and I frown. "He's a friend of mine," I add pointedly. "He's the one who shot Fine."  
  
"The redhead. I remember him from the interviews." Fletcher nods. "It's just hard to picture... A friendly Peacekeeper."  
  
I shrug, chewing my stewed katniss while I think about it. "The Victors said this was the only District where it happened. We were so small and so weak and so... so beaten down, I guess, that nobody took us seriously.  The Peacekeepers didn't have much to do. I mean, there was Reaping Day, and now and then someone would get drunk and start a fight or something, but there was never any rebellion until Fine came. They didn't care about poaching or foraging. I used to sell wild turkeys to Cray, the old Head Peacekeeper. He liked turkey." It feels strange, thinking back to that time. It seems so long ago now. "They relaxed. Got chummy with the locals, someone said. So when Fine came, they couldn't go along with what he was telling them. They knew us. They knew we were _people_."  
  
Grace nods slowly. "I guess I can see that. They used to rotate them out if they got too friendly with anyone, in Seven."  
  
Fletcher looks around, at the seemingly endless expanse of snowy trees and mountains. "But here there was nowhere for them to go." He shakes his head. "You hear about how small District Twelve is, but... I don't know. I didn't realize it was _this_ small. Most of the grazing fields in Ten are bigger."  
  
Grace nods. "There's so much room," she adds, looking out at the river, not frozen yet, that we've stopped beside. "We wondered if it was really possible, that so many of us would be allowed to come here. If there'd be space. But you could move the whole population of District Seven, _all of it_ , out here and not run out of room."  
  
We scout the area near the river for a little while. It's high enough above the river on this side that it's not likely to flood, and Grace assures me that the lumberjacks from Seven will clear it quickly, and use the wood to build with. When I tell them about my book, the one full of plants, they ask if I'll let them copy it out - not now, they can't stay that long, but when they come back in spring. They know some things, like katniss root, but they've lost so much knowledge after being away so long - and there are new plants, like nightlock, that their ancestors didn't know about.  
  
I agree to let them make as many copies of my book as they like if Fletcher teaches me how to make a bow. He agrees, and looks at his garish one and laughs. At least he doesn't have to keep doing _that_ , he says happily.  
  
By the time we get back to town it's well after dark, but I brought lanterns along with the camping gear that we didn't need but might have. It's not hard to find our way - go north and west until we hit the fence, then walk uphill until we reach my gate. My legs are tired by then, and Grace and Fletcher look ready to fall over. They've never walked this much in their whole lives, they tell me. Herding is done on horseback, mostly, not on foot, and Grace works in a communal garden, not as a lumberjack. They sent her because she knows about land.  
  
I drop them at the Mayor's house, where Madge is waiting with tea and a hot meal, and drag myself home to my own dinner. Prim puts the donkey in with the goats - they're all fast friends after the sugaring - and makes me take a hot bath before I stiffen up. When I sleep, I dream of people infesting my woods and destroying my peace, and I'm angry until they all disappear and Peeta and I sit in the Meadow with flowers around us. His head is on my lap and his hair is soft under my fingers and I wake up happy.  
  
When Mayor Undersee asks me, after Grace and Fletcher go, I tell him they'll probably be fine. They plan to build their own fence, I tell him, and they can bring trades like woodcarving and leatherworking along with their livestock. I don't tell him what they told me, that I and everyone in the Seam probably have some tenuous link of blood to these people. I'm not sure how I feel about that, about having an identity larger than my immediate family and my woods. They're all I've ever needed. I don't know if I like having a weight of history on my shoulders.  
  
Winter stretches out longer than ever, this year.  It's always been my least-favourite season, because it was the hungriest and the most dangerous. Then it took Haymitch away from me, and now it's holding me back from Peeta. By mid-winter I'm testy enough to even snap at Prim.  
  
She just looks at me solemnly until I mutter a shamefaced apology, then comes over to hug me. "I know you miss him." she says gently. "But it's only two months more. Maybe less, if thaw comes early."  
  
"It feels longer." I hug her back, though. "At least he's coming for New Year." I know it's what she's going to say, so I say it first. He's going to celebrate the New Year with us, the way families should.  
  
I count the days, even though I see him as often as I can. If he is in the house on New Year, if he shares the special meal and small gifts with us, then I'm sure he won't feel so far away. He tells me not to come by the bakery for a few days before it - he says he has a surprise. I want to sulk, but he looks so happy about it.  
  
Prim and I both get up early on New Year's Day. Peeta is coming over in the morning to help with the cooking, but Prim is up giving the goats a special ration of carrots and making breakfast while I prepare my own contribution to the little feast - the squirrels and rabbit aren't going to gut and prepare themselves, nor are the fish. I've spent the weeks coming up to the New Year hunting harder than I have in a while - it keeps me out of the Peeta-less house - so we have plenty of fresh wild game. Enough for me to give Darius some fish - he loves fish - and Sae a whole rabbit. Because I couldn't get dog, I tell her, and she laughs and takes it. After all the wild dog she's bought from me when nobody else would take it, she deserves a nice fresh rabbit for New Year.  
  
It's possible that several squirrels have found a home in some pot inside a Seam shack, I wouldn't know.  
  
I'm done with my gory contribution and I'm scrubbing blood and viscera out from under my fingernails when someone knocks. "It's Peeta!" Prim calls from upstairs. "I'll get it!"  
  
The knock is a reminder that he doesn't live here, and I scowl and scrub my hands harder. I hate it. I ignore Prim's excited squeal - he must have brought something pretty - and try to force myself back into a pleasanter state of mind. It's New Year. It's special. I'm not going to ruin it just because I miss Peeta so much that I can hardly enjoy it when I do see him.  
  
"Katniss! He's here! Come on!" Prim is grabbing me, dragging me by main force away from the sink.  
  
"I know he's here, you just - Prim, my hands are wet!" I reach for the towel in vain. Prim has me by the back of the sweater and is hauling me away. That makes me laugh, though, and I'm still laughing when I walk into the front room and see Peeta.  
  
Peeta standing on two legs.  
  
"What..." It takes me a second of just staring at him to put it together. "You got a prosthetic?"  
  
He nods, smiling. "It took a while. There's been so many people who need them, and since I could get around and work without one I wasn't high on the waiting list. But... here I am."  
  
I don't quite throw myself on him - I don't want him tipping over - but it's close. I kiss him very thoroughly, for once not caring that Prim's probably watching, and then pull away to smile at him. "Here you are. Wow, hugging is a lot easier without the crutches."  
  
He laughs, holding me tighter. "So much easier." He kisses me until my toes curl. "It's not perfect, and I still need a stick to help me balance. Cranbourne thinks I'll be able to walk without it when I get into practice, though. You have no idea how good it feels to be _level_ again. After years of sagging on one side..." He shakes his head, smiling. "You don't mind that I waited to surprise you?"  
  
"No, of course not! It's wonderful!" I kiss him one more time, then pull away a little reluctantly. I like kissing, and the more we do it the more I hate stopping, but Prim is watching - and grinning, I can't help but notice. "Don't you have breakfast to make or something?"  
  
"It can wait." Prim has her hands clasped under her chin. "I love seeing you both so happy. It's the best New Year present I ever got."  
  
"Oh, so you don't want your new book, then?" Peeta asks, rescuing me from blushing incoherence. He always knows when I need bailing out.  
  
Prim adores her new book, even though it isn't new. Even an old copy of a biology textbook is an exciting novelty here in Twelve, and exactly the right thing for a girl who wants to be a doctor. For me there is a beautifully coloured drawing of Prim in a wooden frame, something to treasure. We have gifts for him, naturally; a soft blue scarf just the colour of his eyes from Prim that she made herself, and from me a set of the water-colour paints that I know he's been coveting for months. It was expensive, but it's worth it for the delight in his face. For Prim I have a string of coloured beads that come from District Ten, though I don't tell her of the weight of history that might come with them. I don't want to talk about sad things today. She gives me a scarf like Peeta's in deep green, my favourite colour.  
  
It's a good day. And afterwards I walk home with Peeta, unwilling to let him go so soon, and when we reach the bakery he stops on the step and kisses me in full view of anyone who cares to look. "We've waited enough," he whispers afterwards, straightening my new scarf. "I'm not going to wait until spring to even let people see that we're courting."  
  
"That makes sense." I'm giddy with happiness, though I know I'm blushing. "We don't want the wedding to be a complete surprise."  
  
"No. Definitely not." And when he kisses me again, I can hardly wait for spring.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The following is purely my opinion, but I think it fits with what we see in the canon)
> 
> There is no race in Panem. 
> 
> There are plenty of people of different skin tones, etc, of course. But race as a concept does not appear to exist. Katniss describes Rue and Thresh as having dark skin and hair, not as being black. She describes Peeta as being fair-haired and blue-eyed, not as being white. She herself has dark hair and olive skin, but doesn't appear to have any knowledge of her own ethnic origins. 
> 
> And it works. A utopia in which Racism Is Over often rings false (except sometimes when it has been superseded by rampant speciesism, because that's probably exactly what humans would do), but in Panem it makes perfect, horrible sense. It is canon that the Capitol's schools teach only what the people in that particular district 'need' to know. Schooling is compulsory, and the schools are run by an oppressive state that controls information obsessively. 
> 
> Of course the Capitol would practice large-scale cultural erasure. It's absolutely in character - deny the oppressed knowledge of their own history, of any culture out of line with that of Panem, of their own languages or even a name for themselves, and your control of them is stronger. It wouldn't be the first time by any means. The residential schools for Native American children, Australia's Stolen Generations, the deliberate eradication of their own languages and their own names among slaves in North America... the list of attempted cultural destruction goes on. But the Capitol, with its Peacekeepers and absolute control over all transmission of information, is equipped to succeed beyond the wildest dreams of those earlier institutions. 
> 
> I don't think they would have succeeded completely. Little things would slip through, harmless local customs like District Twelve's toasting ceremony that aren't worth the effort of eradicating. And there are some groups - the Cherokee I've referenced, for example - whose history includes such attempts and ways to circumvent them. Who could recognise the tactics the Capitol was using in time. And if there aren't little enclaves of Jewish people scattered among the Districts I'd be very surprised - they certainly would have known what was up. There are probably others - I haven't sat down to work out who's likely to have made it and who isn't, since a lot depends on where population centres are in the U.S. versus Panem and so on.
> 
> But by and large, there is no race in Panem. That isn't a good thing. It's a part of the systematic hideousness of the Capitol in manipulating and abusing its citizens. They've been denied their own history, their own identity, and most will probably never even know what they've lost.


End file.
